by June Francis
Yes, do that, thought Tilly, gazing about her. They had passed the Falcon Inn on a corner of Lower Bridge Street. How long had it been there? Probably as long as the ancient cross and the medieval cathedral. She was not so sure about the covered shopping rows but parts of the city walls went further back than the cathedral to Roman times. If she closed her eyes she could picture them in her mind and would carry their images over the water to Liverpool, where, most likely, her future landlady had been up hours ago and might be expecting her.
* * *
Several hours earlier Mrs Wright had woken her daughters by banging on the girls’ bedroom door.
‘What time is it?’ groaned Wendy, rubbing her eyes.
The mattress sagged in the middle as Minnie rolled against her. ‘Why d’you have to bang so loud, Mam?’ moaned Minnie. ‘I don’t have to get up yet.’
‘The sooner you’re up the quicker you can get every thing done. You haven’t got much longer at school and will need to look for a job, girl,’ said Mrs Wright.
Wendy glanced at the alarm clock, which was getting temperamental and had failed to rouse her. ‘Goodness, Mam, it’s half-six! Far too early for our Minnie. She’ll only get in the way.’
‘The newspapers are here and the delivery boy won’t be long after them. I’ve put the kettle on,’ said Mrs Wright. ‘Our Minnie can make the tea and some toast. I’ll get started sorting out the papers. Besides, our new lodger might make an appearance today and one of us should give her room a going over.’
‘OK!’ Wendy kicked off the bedcovers and tumbled out of bed.
Minnie scrabbled for the covers and drew them back over her. ‘I’m going back to sleep. I don’t want any tea and toast. I’m never going to work in a shop, the hours are too long. A nice job in an office will suit me.’
‘You’ll be lucky. Tilly Moran has got a better chance of getting an office job than you.’
‘Sez you,’ murmured Minnie sleepily.
Wendy gave up on her and sat on the edge of the bed, dragging the well-worn cotton nightgown over her head. She reached for the garments hanging over the bottom of the bed and began to dress in camisole, drawers, black stockings and a plain blue dress that was six inches from the ground. She pondered on whether she could get away with taking up the hem another inch without her mother noticing but decided it was unlikely. She reached for her shoes and fastened the laces, before hurrying downstairs to the outside toilet.
Afterwards, she washed her face and hands in the scullery sink before entering the kitchen, where a kettle was steaming away on the gas stove. She made a pot of tea and a couple of rounds of toast before carrying the tray through into the shop, where her mother was at work.
‘Here yer are, Mam,’ said Wendy, placing tea and toast on a shelf safely away from the danger of being knocked over. ‘Our Min has dozed off again.’
The shop bell jangled and a man entered, followed by the paper boy. Wendy smiled as she recognised Mr Simpson. He needed a shave and his clothes were looking rather rumpled but she still considered him an attractive man.
‘Good morning! You’re early. Your usual paper?’ she said.
‘That’s right, Miss Wright, the Daily Post.’ His eyelids drooped and his hazel eyes turned into slits as he yawned.
Mrs Wright looked up from her counting and writing numbers of houses on corners of newspapers and magazines.
Home delivery was a new service they were offering their customers and it was proving a success. ‘You look tired, Mr Simpson. Were you out all night?’
‘Aye. But what you told me clinched the business.’ He brought his head close to Mrs Wright’s and lowered his voice. ‘I saw my quarry coming out of the address you gave me, so I can wind up the case.’
Wendy tried to appear as if she were not listening but she was all ears. In what way had her mother helped the great detective?
Mrs Wright’s mouth pursed disapprovingly. ‘I don’t hold with bigamy. Disgusting! Although, no doubt there’s plenty of it about due to couples rushing into marriage during the war and then realising their mistake. Moral standards have dropped shockingly and I intend keeping a tight rein on my girls.’
Oh no! Not that old chestnut, thought Wendy. Her mother was always going on about the dreadful moral standards of the day.
‘There’s nothing new under the sun, Mrs Wright,’ said Mr Simpson, digging into his pocket and bringing out a handful of change. ‘People are just more honest about sin these days. The war’s caused people to question the beliefs of the older generation.’ He slapped the money down on the counter. ‘I’ll have a bar of Bournville dark chocolate, too, Miss Wright, if you please?’
Mrs Wright fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Sugar is still on ration, you know.’
‘I know, Mrs Wright, but surely you don’t begrudge a hardworking man his bar of chocolate. I’ll make it last me the week,’ said Mr Simpson.
A question in her eyes, Wendy glanced at her mother. She turned her back on them and reached for her cup of tea. Her mother’s behaviour frequently didn’t make sense to Wendy because she often said one thing and did another. Wendy knew this and that’s why she took a bar of chocolate from a box on the shelf behind her and placed it on the counter in front of Mr Simpson. ‘You certainly seem to prefer dark chocolate to milk,’ she said in a low voice as a way of prolonging the conversation.
‘You’re right there. We’ll make a detective of you yet,’ he teased, handing her sixpence.
She blushed and tingled all over. Hastily, she turned and placed the money in the till and gave him his change. As he left the shop, she rested her elbows on the counter and gazed after him, wondering if the day would come when he would notice that she was growing into a woman. She would be seventeen before Christmas.
‘Stop daydreaming,’ said Mrs Wright, nudging her daughter’s elbow. ‘He was joking when he said he’d make a detective of you.’
Wendy heaved a sigh. ‘I know it was a joke. So who’s the bigamist, Mam?’
‘Never you mind, girl. You help the lad get those newspapers in the bag and out on the bike.’
Wendy did as she was told, steadying the bicycle as the youth heaved the bag into the holder at the front of the machine. Once he was seated, she gave him a push to get him started and watched him sail off down the road. She stood a little longer, breathing in the polluted air and gazing at a tram rattling by. A worker making his way to the tobacco factory pushed past her and entered the shop. She followed him in just as the sun went behind a cloud.
As Wendy served the man, her mind wandered to thoughts of Tilly Moran. Would she arrive today or was she already regretting saying she would take Uncle Robbie’s room? She thought enviously of her uncle and aunt away on the briny, heading towards foreign parts. Now, that would be an adventure! Life could be a little dull at times. She thought of Mr Simpson and wondered what his first name was and whether he already had another case to keep him busy. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to be kissed by him and closed her eyes briefly.
‘Wake up, girl,’ said the customer. ‘Yer haven’t given me my change.’
‘Sorry,’ said Wendy, handing him his tuppence.
The next few hours passed slowly without much of note happening. She would be in sole charge of the shop later when her mother went shopping. Perhaps Tilly Moran would have arrived by then.
Wendy was in the back spreading jam on bread when she became aware of raised voices coming from the shop. She hurried out and was in time to see an angry-faced young woman step away from her mother. Mrs Wright had a hand to her face and was swearing like a trooper. Wendy was shocked because she had never heard her mother swear before.
‘What’s up? What’s going on?’ demanded Wendy.
‘You run and find the bobby, girl!’ panted her mother. ‘This cow has just assaulted me.’
‘That’s because you interfered in my affairs,’ cried the woman, banging her fist on the counter. ‘Yer should have minded yer own business. Now the police have gone and a
rrested me husband.’
‘He’s not your husband, you stupid woman,’ yelled Mrs Wright.
‘He’s as good as! We were happy. I’m having his baby. What’s going to happen to me and the baby now? He’ll lose his job, might go to prison. How am I going to cope?’ she wailed.
‘It’s not my fault! Lay the blame where it belongs on that two timing man of yours,’ said Mrs Wright, her face screwed up with pain.
‘It is your fault. Yer shouldn’t have interfered.’
‘Oh, shut up, you silly girl. Don’t yer care that he’s got a wife already?’
‘Of course, but I love him. She was a mistake and nagged him to tie the knot before he went off to war,’ said the woman, wringing her hands. ‘What am I going to do?’
Wendy’s sympathy was roused. ‘Do you really want me to get the police, Mam, or shall I make us all a cup of tea?’
‘No, you bloody won’t,’ said Mrs Wright, lowering her hand to reveal a right shiner.
‘Blooming heck, Mam, she’s given you a black eye,’ said Wendy.
‘Yeah! And you want to go and make her a cup of tea. Not bloody likely. She needs a warning from the bobbies if nothing else. You go and find ours on the beat. Then you can go the butcher’s and see if he’s got a bit of steak for this eye.’
‘Yer don’t really think I’m going to hang around here waiting for a bobby to come, do yer?’ said the woman. ‘I’m off!’
As she hurried out of the shop, she bumped into a girl in the doorway.
‘Stop her!’ called Mrs Wright.
But it was too late, she had gone.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Tilly, coming further into the shop and placing her Gladstone bag on the counter.
Wendy smiled at her. ‘So you’ve come.’
‘Yes. The room is still available to me, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Wright. ‘But you’ve picked a bad time to arrive, girl. That one you let get away, did this to me.’ She lowered her hand.
Tilly gasped. ‘That’s some black eye! How awful!’
‘I’ll say it is,’ said Wendy, nodding. ‘Go and have a look at it, Mam.’
‘I’ll do that after you go and fetch a bobby and me steak. I know where that woman lives so she won’t get away with this.’
‘What about Tilly?’ asked Wendy. ‘Who’s going to see to her?’
‘She can see to herself,’ said Mrs Wright, touching the skin beneath her eyes gingerly. ‘You showed her the room so she knows where to stow her stuff.’
Tilly cleared her throat. ‘Freddie brought me in the car. I’ve got a few more things that need bringing in and taking up.’ She paused. ‘Is there anything I can do for you before the pair of us go up?’
‘No. My eye won’t stop watering until I have that steak. Take some money out of the till, Wendy, and get going,’ said Mrs Wright.
Wendy did so. Then Freddie came in with a couple of boxes in his arms. ‘Where do I put these?’ he asked.
‘Follow me,’ said Tilly.
‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Mrs Wright, seizing hold of Tilly’s arm. ‘You’re not going upstairs with him, unchaperoned. You can wait until our Wendy comes back.’
Freddie placed the boxes on the counter and stared at Tilly’s landlady. ‘I’m a married man and I haven’t got time to hang around here, Mrs Wright. I have to get back to work and I still have a few more things to bring in yet.’ He brought his head closer to the older woman’s. ‘That’s a bad black eye you’ve got there.’
‘A woman gave it to her,’ said Tilly.
Mrs Wright let out a scream. ‘You don’t have to tell him! I’ll trust the pair of you to get out my way and take your stuff upstairs.’
Freddie and Tilly did not need telling twice but before they went, he asked, ‘Do you get many women fighting round here, Mrs Wright? I don’t know if it’s a safe place for our Tilly.’
‘Of course not,’ said Rita Wright indignantly, drawing herself up to her full height of five feet, two inches. ‘This is a respectable household.’
Freddie’s lips quivered. ‘I’ll believe you. Well, I can’t hang around here all day. I’ve a proper job to do.’
Mrs Wright said, ‘Yeah, you go. I’m going to have to keep my eye on the shop until our Wendy gets back.’
Tilly was giggling as she carried her Gladstone bag upstairs. ‘I know I shouldn’t laugh,’ she said. ‘But Mrs Wright saying she was going to keep an eye on the shop with that black eye of hers tickled me.’
‘I wonder why the woman hit her?’
‘I’ll try and find out and let you know,’ said Tilly.
Freddie dumped the boxes on the bed and gazed about him. ‘Not bad. I’ll be able to tell the family you’ve a nice room. Mind you, I’m still not certain I should be leaving you here, Tilly.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Tilly. ‘That woman’s not going to hit me. Besides, Wendy is fetching a bobby. See how safe I am? The police will be keeping an eye on this place. I’ve struck lucky!’
Freddie shook his head. ‘I’ll go and get your desk. You can carry up your chair.’
She followed him out. ‘Don’t say anything about what happened to the others, Freddie. I don’t want them worrying about me.’
‘OK,’ said Freddie. ‘But if you do get into trouble, Tilly, just let me know and I’ll come and sort it out.’
She thanked him, thinking that while it was reassuring her family were concerned about her, she hoped that they would not be coming over here by the minute to check up on her.
Chapter Six
Tilly was smiling as she stowed away her clothes and books, hung a towel on the rail of the wash stand, put her old rag doll on her bed and her toiletries and Bible on the dressing table. She placed typing paper on her desk next to her typewriter, as well as a couple of sheets of carbon paper. In a drawer she put her spare typewriter ribbon, pencils, rubbers and her fountain pen and ink. Then she went downstairs, curious to know why the woman who had brushed past her earlier had given Mrs Wright a black eye.
‘So how are you feeling, Mrs Wright?’ asked Tilly, on entering the sitting room.
‘It’s his fault. I should never have helped him,’ said Mrs Wright, holding the steak to her eye. ‘But when he came into the shop and showed me that man’s photograph, I knew I couldn’t keep quiet.’
‘What man?’ asked Tilly.
Mrs Wright stared at her from her one good eye. ‘Never you mind. It’s a private matter but I should have known he wouldn’t keep quiet about where he got his information from.’
‘Mam, I’m sure Mr Simpson didn’t snitch on you,’ said Wendy, not wanting her hero to prove to have clay feet. ‘Maybe she worked it out for herself. I mean, so many people come into this shop and chatter away about their lives that we know a lot about them. We also know when strangers move in.’
‘Maybe. Although, I wouldn’t have thought she was that bright. She should have spotted that bigamist swine was a bad ’un straight away,’ said Mrs Wright.
‘What about you and Dad? You were always saying he was hopeless as a father and a husband, so why didn’t you spot his faults before you married him?’ demanded Wendy, crossly.
Her mother reddened. ‘Never you mind! Don’t you get personal with me, girl. What a thing to say in front of the lodger! Which reminds me…’ She stared at Tilly.
‘You want paying,’ said Tilly.
‘Yeah. Two weeks in advance.’ Mrs Wright held out her free hand.
‘I’ll need to go back upstairs,’ said Tilly.
Mrs Wright dropped her hand. ‘OK. It can wait. You can give me it later. Right now, if you could put the kettle on and make us a cuppa, it would be a help.’
‘OK.’ Tilly went into the kitchen but left the door open.
‘D’you think they will put him in prison, Mam?’ asked Wendy.
‘Probably. The law’s not going to let men get away with being bigamists,’ said Mrs Wright.
‘But what about her having his b
aby? It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’
‘Let it be a warning to you, girl,’ she said darkly. ‘You can’t trust men, even the best of them. Take my brother for instance. I never thought he’d go and marry again at his age. I mean, he made a mistake the first time, didn’t he? I thought we’d have him with us until he passed away.’
‘Don’t you think you should be pleased that Uncle Robbie’s found happiness at his time of life?’ asked Wendy. ‘I think he and Aunt Eudora love each other.’
‘Love! Happiness! It doesn’t last, girl. You mark my words. You’d best get your head out of the clouds – stop reading those women’s magazines!’
There was the sound of a bell jingling and footsteps, then silence. Tilly presumed someone had come into the shop and Wendy had gone to serve them.
A few minutes later Tilly carried in a tray and placed it on an occasional table in front of the sofa where her landlady was sitting. ‘How do you like your tea, Mrs Wright?’ she asked.
‘Strong and sweet,’ said the older woman.
Tilly poured the tea. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘Besides pay me?’ asked Mrs Wright, placing the steak on her saucer and then sipping her tea. She was silent a moment and then said, ‘Know anything about books?’
Tilly was puzzled about what she meant by that question. ‘I read a lot and possess a few books of my own, and I want to write a novel of course.’
‘I’ve a pile of books upstairs,’ said Mrs Wright. ‘The old ladies left them and nobody’s claimed them. Our Robbie left books behind, as well. I had the boys dump them in one of the empty rooms. If you get the chance, perhaps you could have a look at them and see if they’re worth anything.’
Tilly’s interest was roused. ‘You mean you want to sell them?’
Mrs Wright put down her cup and dabbed at her watering eye with the steak. ‘If you can get a decent price for them, all well and good, but there’s quite a lot of them.’
‘I’ll have a look and see what I can do,’ said Tilly. ‘If there are as many books as you seem to be saying, have you thought of a lending library?’
