Missing Person

by Mary Jane Staples

  * * *

  Mid-morning, and Miss Polly Simms was climbing the stairs to the offices of Adams Enterprises. Polly was now thirty-three, and as vivacious and brittle as ever, her grey eyes and her smile often self-mocking. A supple and slender woman, she still wore the hair style of a flapper, a Colleen Moore bob whose curving points always seemed to lightly caress her cheeks. She was a school-teacher. Friends as upper-class as she was found it hysterical that she actually worked, and as a teacher of the lower classes. She was at West Square Girls School, attended by Rosie and Rosie’s cousin, Annabelle. She had taught at Rosie’s primary school, and had subsequently made shameless use of her father’s influence to secure the post at West Square. She always saw Rosie as the daughter she might have had by Boots if Emily hadn’t got her hands on him first.

  An ambulance driver during the Great War, Polly could never forget those horrendous years, nor the sound of the guns, nor the men of the trenches, of whom Boots had been one. Her attachment to him was incurable. Perhaps because she had never had him she would always want him.

  She knocked on the door of his office and went in without waiting for his response. Boots, at his desk, turned his head. Seeing her, he took on a slightly wary expression. His feelings for Sir Henry Simms’s extrovert daughter were of a kind he kept closely guarded.

  ‘Polly?’

  Polly, closing the door, said, ‘Good morning, you swine.’

  ‘Now what have I done?’ asked Boots.

  ‘Had lunch at Simpson’s with Sammy’s old girlfriend, Rachel Goodman,’ said Polly. ‘You low-down snake in the grass, when have you ever invited me to a high-class lunch in town?’

  ‘I’ve had the pleasure of lunching with you several times in the pub across the road,’ said Boots.

  ‘Burning arrows, I’m not talking about a sandwich and a gin and it in a pub,’ said Polly, ‘I’m talking about an intimate lunch in the West End, with violins playing. If you’re thinking of having an affair with Rachel, I’ll come round to your house and smash all your windows.’

  ‘Emily won’t like that,’ said Boots, ‘she’ll phone for a policeman.’

  ‘Damn Emily,’ said Polly, striking in a stylish hat and spring coat. The day was fresh. ‘I’m meeting Rachel for lunch at the Ritz today.’ She and Rachel had established a warm friendship, due in the beginning to their affinity with the Adams family. ‘I phoned her this morning to confirm the time, and we had a hen party over the line. Until, that is, she told me about lunching with you. End of hen party.’

  ‘Didn’t she tell you it was a business lunch?’ said Boots.

  ‘She tried to,’ said Polly, ‘but there’s no such thing as a woman having a business lunch with a man like you. When I get to the Ritz, I’m going to spoil her ravishing beauty by scratching her eyes out.’

  ‘I’ll smack your bottom if you do,’ said Boots.

  ‘Promises, promises, that’s all I’ve ever had from you,’ said Polly.

  ‘That’s why we’re still good friends,’ said Boots. His phone rang, and Polly stood fuming while he attended to the call. The curse of it was that fuming was no real help to a woman whose prevailing desire was to get him into her bed and eat him. Putting the phone down, he said, ‘Now where were we, Polly old love?’

  He was looking up at her with his smile close to the surface, as if even at her most furious he couldn’t help being amused by her. She swooped, she put her mouth to his and kissed him out of sheer frustrated want. She felt his immediate response, but then he wrecked the moment by breaking the kiss.

  ‘Must you?’ she said.

  ‘I think we’re out of order,’ said Boots.

  ‘Well, bloody good show,’ said Polly.

  ‘It’s hardly the time and place, Polly.’

  ‘Where, then, and when?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Boots, still giving nothing away, ‘it’s the monthly garden cricket and tea party next Sunday, to which you’re coming as usual. I’d suggest after tea and in the garden shed.’

  ‘God help you, d’you think that’s funny?’

  ‘It will be, if we fall over the mower,’ said Boots.

  Polly’s sense of humour saved her from smashing up his phone. She burst into laughter, at which point one of the general office girls knocked on the door and came in with Boots’s morning coffee. She checked as she saw Polly.

  ‘Oh, shall I bring another coffee, Mr Adams?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Polly.

  ‘All right,’ said the girl, and placed the coffee on Boots’s desk, the while taking in Polly’s elegance.

  ‘Thanks, Gwen,’ said Boots, and the girl left.

  ‘I’m going now,’ said Polly, ‘I’ve got this appointment to strangle Rachel. But about next Sunday.’

  ‘What about it?’ asked Boots.

  ‘Smash the mower up and get it out of the shed before I arrive.’

  ‘I’ll have to mow the cricket pitch first,’ said Boots.

  ‘God knows why I love you,’ said Polly, ‘I must be right off my chump.’

  ‘Join the club,’ said Boots.

  ‘Here’s my seal of membership,’ said Polly, and kissed him again before leaving.

  During the afternoon, Mrs Harper answered a knock on her door.

  ‘What, you two again?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it’s me and Freddy,’ said Cassie.

  ‘I don’t know why it’s me as well,’ said Freddy, ‘I was supposed to be somewhere else.’

  ‘It’s Cecil too,’ said Cassie, showing the covered birdcage. ‘Can we bring ’im in to see Percy, Mrs ’Arper?’

  ‘Not now, dearie, I’ve got company,’ said Mrs Harper. The men were in the kitchen. ‘Some other time. Toodle-oo.’ She closed the door.

  ‘Oh, bother, Cecil won’t ’alf be disappointed,’ said Cassie. ‘Shall we take ’im up the park, Freddy?’

  ‘What for?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘He can look at the flowers. He likes flowers.’

  ‘Oh, ’e said so, did ’e?’ asked Freddy, walking up the Place with his eccentric and imaginative mate.

  ‘Well, I showed ’im the flowers Nellie’s young man brought, and asked ’im if he liked them,’ said Cassie. ‘’E didn’t say anything, but he nodded ’is head.’

  ‘Why didn’t he say anything?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘He was eatin’ ’is birdseed,’ said Cassie, ‘and ’e never speaks with ’is mouth full.’

  A girl, fifteen-year-old Flossie Dicks, came walking down the Place from Browning Street. She gave Freddy a come-on smile.

  ‘’Ello, Freddy, ain’tcher gettin’ ’andsome?’ she said. Then she almost fell over Cassie’s foot. ‘’Ere, who did that?’ she demanded.

  ‘You hurt my foot then, kickin’ it like that,’ said Cassie, who had attempted to trip her up. ‘If you do it again, Flossie Dicks, I’ll kick you back.’

  ‘Like to see you try,’ said Flossie, but went on her way just in case Cassie did start kicking.

  ‘Cassie, what d’you do that for?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘She’s flirty, that’s why,’ said Cassie, ‘and you’re not to talk to ’er. Are we goin’ up the park, then?’

  ‘No, to your home,’ said Freddy, ‘so that you can get rid of Cecil. Then I’ll take you up King and Queen Street and buy you a toffee-apple.’

  ‘Crikey, d’you love me, then, Freddy?’

  ‘Ask me when I’m thirty,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Cassie.

  Over lunch with Polly in town, Rachel had been taken to task for daring to dine with Boots at Simpson’s. Stick to your weakness for Sammy, Polly said, or I’ll draw blood. Rachel assured her it had only been a business lunch. Rats to that, said Polly, I’ve already told Boots it’s impossible for any woman to have a business lunch with him.

  ‘I should do you down with Boots?’ murmured Rachel.

  ‘Well, old thing, I can only say I feel the pain of a knife in my back. Don’t be surprised if I suddenly pour my
glass of wine all over your lap. What was the business about?’

  ‘Oh, simply a little commission from Boots, Polly love. Nothing to give you even a small twinge.’

  ‘I don’t have small twinges over Boots, darling, only fiery ones.’

  ‘How we suffer from our frustrations,’ said Rachel. ‘Is there a way out?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly, ‘we could shoot each other.’

  Chapter Eleven

  THE WAGGONS OF Blundell’s Circus, some motorized and some horse-drawn, trawled their way around the Elephant and Castle and into the New Kent Road, gathering up the dust of a dry May. They were heading for Margate.

  At four o’clock, Tilly returned from a visit to the market, her shopping bag full. She opened the door by pulling on the latchcord. Bubbles and Penny-Farving, playing with kids in the street, called to her.

  ‘’Ello, Tilly, can we come and be wiv yer?’

  Tilly dodged the question by quickly entering the house and closing the door. Dan, keeping his eye on the girls from the parlour, came out into the passage.

  ‘Like a cup of tea?’ he asked.

  Tilly, sensing a cup of tea was going to turn into a bribe, said, ‘Sorry, can’t stop, Mr Rogers, I’ve got shoppin’ to unload and things to do.’ She began to climb the stairs.

  ‘I’ll bring you one up,’ said Dan, looking casual and manly in a shirt and belted trousers.

  ‘Well, if you come up with a cup of tea and start askin’ favours of me,’ said Tilly from the top stair, ‘I’ll get me bolster off the bed again and lay you out.’

  Dan, looking up at her from the foot of the stairs, grinned.

  ‘Compliments to yer, Tilly,’ he said.

  ‘What d’you mean, compliments?’

  ‘Well, from where I am,’ said Dan, ‘you’re a sight for sore eyes.’

  Tilly’s legs and skirt whisked out of vision as she hastily put herself on the landing. She looked down at him from over the banister rail.

  ‘You ought to be locked up for indecent gawpin’,’ she said. ‘Don’t you ’ave no respect for me integrity?’

  ‘For your integrity, Tilly, I couldn’t ’ave more,’ said Dan, ‘not after all the help you’ve been, but I can’t help bein’ naturally compliment’ry about what you look like up there when I’m down here.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Tilly. She put her shopping bag on the floor, went into her bedroom and came out again, carrying the washstand pitcher. She held it out over the banisters and turned it upside-down. Water sheeted. Dan, however, suspecting something was going to be dropped on his head, shifted himself out of the way fast. The water splashed and ran over the bottom stairs.

  ‘Strike a light,’ he grinned, ‘no sooner a word than a blow.’

  ‘Missed, did I?’ said Tilly. ‘Well, drowning’s too good, anyway, for a bloke with eyes like you’ve got. I don’t like bein’ unkind, but you’ve got evil eyes, Mr Rogers.’

  ‘Well, blow me,’ said Dan, a pained expression on his rugged face, ‘I never knew it was evil just lookin’ at a woman.’

  ‘Well, it is, the way you look,’ said Tilly, ‘and you’d best get it into yer head that I’m a girl who can stand up for ’erself.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ said Dan. ‘Every time you stand up for yerself, I finish on the floor. But there’s no hard feelings, Tilly, I respect what you’re standin’ up for, specially as I’m a husband and father.’

  ‘Here, give over, you’re not a husband,’ said Tilly, staying behind the banisters and keeping her skirt and legs out of sight.

  ‘Well, no, not yet,’ said Dan, ‘but I feel I’m goin’ to be. I feel you’re right, I’ve got to marry the girls’ mother.’

  ‘Well, hoo-blimey-hooray,’ said Tilly, ‘now you’re talkin’ like a man instead of a soft cream doughnut, and not before—’

  She was interrupted as the front door opened to another pull on the latchcord, and in tumbled a hurrying Bubbles and Penny-Farving, slightly grimy from their street play.

  ‘Dad, Dad,’ cried Penny-Farving, ‘it’s her, she’s comin’!’

  ‘Who’s her?’ asked Dan.

  ‘Our muvver,’ said Bubbles, and she and Penny-Farving tucked themselves behind their dad’s legs. In through the open door came a woman of thirty, carrying a medium-sized suitcase. She was wearing a dark blue hat and a cherry-red coat, the coat trimmed with astrakhan. It was tightly waisted with a flared knee-length skirt. Long lace-up black boots sheathed her black-stockinged legs. Her face was made up to give her a painted prettiness, and her figure was of a bold hour-glass kind. She came to a theatrical stop in the passage, the skirt of her coat executing a little swirl. She put the suitcase down and darted a glance at the little girls seeking to hide themselves.

  ‘Ah, are zey my children, zat pair wiz dirty faces?’ she asked.

  Lovaduck, thought Tilly from above, that’s her, that’s Gladys Hobday trying to sound like a Hungarian? Looks like a tart from here.

  ‘Come out, me angels,’ said Dan, ‘she’s not goin’ to eat you.’

  The girls peeped apprehensively. The woman shook her head at Dan.

  ‘Zat is not ze way wiz girls, to let them ’ave dirty faces,’ she said.

  ‘Well, now you’re here, you can do something about it,’ said Dan.

  The woman, giving him a disdainful look, said, ‘I am not hearing zat.’

  ‘Go into the kitchen for a bit, me sausages,’ said Dan, and the girls seemed only too glad to lose themselves. ‘I’ve been thinkin’, Elvira, it’s time you gave up the circus to look after the girls.’

  ‘Pooh, you silly man, zat is not for me, zat is for someone who does not mind washing dirty faces and grubby clothes. I am ze famous Elvira Karola, ze ’Ungarian wire-walker. But I ’ave stepped out of my caravan to come and see you, to forgive you for getting me wiz child – ah, twice, you naughty man, so zat I am thinking I must marry you. But no, it is not for me, it would not please all ze men who admire me.’

  ‘Blow pleasin’ them,’ said Dan, ‘it’s time you and me did what’s right for the girls, not what’s right for you.’

  That’s the stuff, thought Tilly, go it.

  ‘Again I am not hearing zat,’ said the woman.

  ‘Well, hear this,’ said Dan, moving through the passage and closing the front door. ‘Now you’re here we’ll fix up to get married at the town hall as soon as I can arrange it.’

  ‘No, no, you are crazy,’ said the woman. ‘But I am still fond of you and will spend ze night wiz you, zen take ze train in ze morning to catch up wiz ze circus at Margate.’

  ‘No, no dice,’ said Dan. ‘We’re goin’ to get married for the sake of the girls, and you’re goin’ to look after them.’

  The woman let a hiss escape.

  ‘Stupid man! I am to look after your children? I, ze magical Elvira?’

  ‘They’re your children as well,’ said Dan.

  ‘Ah, what a stupid way to make love to me, by giving me ze children I did not want!’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Dan, ‘you did your share of draggin’ me into bed.’

  ‘Ah, love is terrible,’ sighed the woman. ‘You are so good in bed, Dan, but zat does not mean we should marry. Ze circus is to go to France late zis summer, and cannot go wizout ze great Elvira Karola, which is me.’ She caught sight of Tilly then, for Tilly had moved to stand on the top stair. ‘Who is zat fat woman up zair?’

  It was Tilly’s turn to let a hiss escape.

  ‘That’s Miss Thomas, our lodger,’ said Dan, ‘but she ain’t fat, not from here she ain’t, nor from anywhere.’

  ‘Ze cow ’as been listening,’ said the Hungarian marvel. ‘Let her look after ze girls. Does she know ’ow famous I am?’

  ‘No, I bloody-well don’t,’ said Tilly, and down the stairs she came, hot with outrage, to confront the woman. The hour-glass figure and the sumptuous figure locked bosom to bosom. Well, almost they did. Only three inches separated them. ‘You ain’t Elvira Carry-oolala or whatever,’ breath
ed Tilly, ‘you’re Gladys Hobday, and if I was Mr Rogers I’d give you a bloody good ’iding.’

  ‘’Ow dare you!’ hissed the tightrope wonder, and smacked Tilly’s face.

  ‘That’s done it,’ said Tilly, and boxed the woman’s ears. The mask dropped.

  ‘Oh, yer bleedin’ bitch!’ screeched Gladys Hobday.

  ‘Steady,’ said Dan, ‘I don’t want to send for the fire brigade.’

  Gladys smacked his face this time.

  ‘Get this fat cow out of ’ere!’ she hissed.

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Tilly, ‘ain’t you ’orrible? Mr Rogers, you’ll ’ave to lock ’er up till she comes to ’er senses and does what’s right. You owe it to yer little angels. Lock ’er up for long enough and she’ll ’ave time to take a good look at ’erself. There’s got to be a woman there somewhere, and a mother too.’

  ‘I’ll bleedin’ murder you, yer saucy bitch!’ yelled Gladys.

  ‘How about if we all calm down over a pot of tea?’ suggested Dan.

  ‘Bugger a pot of tea, and ’er as well,’ said Gladys, ‘I’m gettin’ out of this crummy hole.’ She reached for her suitcase. Tilly kicked it over. Gladys, spitting, turned on her. Dan shoved himself between them. He received a furious swipe from Gladys and a blow from Tilly.

  ‘Gawd blimey,’ he said, ‘d’you want me to knock yer heads together?’

  ‘Lock ’er up,’ said Tilly, ‘it’s your only chance.’

  ‘Well, Elvira,’ said Dan, ‘I put it to you—’

  ‘She’s Gladys, not Elvira,’ said Tilly, ‘and if you’ll remember that, you’ll come down to earth and not let ’er treat you like a dog’s dinner.’

  ‘Let me get at that cow,’ panted Gladys, ‘I’ll bleedin’ kill ’er.’