Morris said, “We’ll have a proper English tea for two, please.”
She seemed confused by that.
Gladys said, “I’ll just have a pot of Earl Grey and a current bun or two. Lemon, not milk.”
“Earl Grey is for breakfast,” Morris said.
Sensing that something worse was coming, Gladys leaned closer to say, “If you are going to deny me every little thing, we are not going to get on at all, you and I. Throw caution to the wind, that’s what I say, for who knows when we’ll be at war again.”
The waitress giggled. His ears turned bright red, but he was insistent on what he wanted at least. Then he added tersely to the waitress, “Well, you have our order, why are you standing there for like an idiot? Be off.”
The waitress gasped, then turned red and fled.
Gladys knew enough of people working in places that served food to never be rude to them, else they’d spit on your food—well, some of them. Why take the chance, and by the way, why be unpleasant to begin? This wasn’t going well, and she regretted not going with her instincts to not accept the appointment to met him in the first place.
But her aunt didn’t ask much of her, and she had taken Gladys in. Aunt Gladiola seemed to mourn for her father even longer than Gladys did. It’s true that she missed him, but not the life they had, which was now rather unpleasant in her memories—now that she had a roof over her head, and the regular use of a bathroom and kitchen and bed.
She meant to make her excuses quickly, so after a quick cup of tea and discretely putting the second bun into her handbag, Gladys pleaded a queasy stomach. It turned out to be the perfect excuse for Morris Nimrod Dumpey, grandson of the Seventh Earl of Pratt-on-Towst, though she suspected he’d made that whole thing up and had no right to call attention. He waved over the waitress, but in moment, loudly demanded the manager instead. When that man came over (the one who had told them to seat themselves), Morris started giving him the what-for about this place being the most horrible excuse for a tearoom there was.
Gladys was horrified. He was using her discomfort—even though she had made it all up—to get out of paying the bill. Fine, he was on his own with that.
She gave the manager what she thought was an apologetic look, put her hanky to her mouth and rushed from the tearoom.
~~~
In the corridor, instead of heading to the Ladies Lounge, she headed for the coat closet where she had checked her bags. Handing over the ticket to a different clerk than before, she got her bags with no politeness this time around.
She meant to tip, but decided against it, noticing that the bags were a bit wrinkled now, though they had been new when she checked them over. Must have been mishandled in the process of stowing them away back there. Who knew the place could be so crowded this time of day, although the tearoom was just beginning to fill for regular teatime, it seems, and the coatroom was getting busy.
Even from here, she could hear the argument about their bill, so Gladys took the bags and rushed outside. She didn’t usually take taxis, but she still had some change, and this was a special case. Still, none would stop for her. It looked like rain, and she had no umbrella. She glanced back again to the hotel: What if her blind date came after?
She hurried toward the Tube and scurried as fast as she could down the stairs. When they pulled out, she sighed and pulled the bags a little closer, shutting her eyes all the while. Finally, her stop came. When she got out, there were a group of boys who looked like they were up to no good.
She swerved toward another woman who was leading a dog, and walked close enough so it looked like they knew one another. Up the stairs and onto the street, the rain was coming down now. She meant to pull up her collar, but her hands were full with the bags so Gladys hunched her shoulders and ran as best she could.
It was awkward; she stumbled and fell, but managed to keep the bags in hand, and nothing fell from them. Her knee was wet and stinging now, and she could see the rain made the blood thinner and flow down into her shoe like little red rivers. Her stockings were ruined, of course, and now she felt like screaming in frustration, but someone close behind her said, “Are you all right, miss?”
It was a copper. She said, “I fell and my bloody knee hurts.”
“Here now, such a pretty girl and such language.”
It wasn’t swearing, but descriptive, and she meant to mention it in the strongest of terms—besides, he had called her pretty. Instead, she swore like her father did—in American—to express the painful sentiment, but then burst out laughing—couldn’t help it—but it sounded hysterical.
He said, “Well then, here now. Where do you live, ducks?”
She said, “Never mind, I’m already there, nearly. Just had a bad day and now my shoes are wet and stained and my stockings are completely for the bin.”Ó
He only gave a little salute and was on his way.
Could have offered to help me carry—
No, she’d already had her fill of unknown men today.
Gladys made it into her building and past the common lobby without much interaction at all. By the time she struggled to open her door, the weight of the bags were overwhelming, and she dropped them both on the floor, then tossed her handbag after.
She left them there, hung up her coat (as she was always taught since living with Aunt Gladiola), then peeled off her clothes and tossed them towards the hamper. There was a laundry down stairs, but she was too tired to care. They would get moldy if left for too long, but perhaps later after a warm bath and a few sips of tea . . .
All proceeded as planned, to her relief. When the water got tepid, she was out of the bath, and now planning on enjoying her new nightgown. It was cheap cotton, but the summers were hot here, and she was sick of the flannel she’d worn all winter. It wasn’t frivolous, it was practical, and that way the winter gown would last even longer.
She went to the bags. Packages had toppled out when she dropped them, but now none of them looked familiar. She checked the other bag too. Nothing was what she had purchased. In fact, it was something completely different. Instead of underwear and simple home goods like soap flakes, wash clothes and bloomers, it was . . . small packages of money.
She checked the claim ticket next, which was still attached with a string to one of the bags.
Hers had been number 96, she remembered.
The one on the bag was number 69.
Oh my. Not my bags at all, but bags of money . . . two bags full. Nursery rhymes came to mind without bidding, but not out of her mouth. Fact was, she couldn’t quite remember them completely, as she had never really learned those from her father. How to prep a plane for flight—now that checklist she knew by heart—but not the thing about sheep having any wool.
What to do? Oh, wait—she’d forgotten about the other small box; that was missing too. She supposed if no one claimed it, the hotel would hold it for some time—how long then? Should she go back there while they might remember her? It had no identification on it, but she could tell them what was in it—three pair of bloomers for her Aunt Gladiola, wrapped separately so she could present them as a thoughtful gift.
She felt herself blushing. Maybe she could have the waitress help her—
No, she decided, not after the performance by Morris.
Someone called on the street outside, she held her breath, but it wasn’t for her. She let it out as a sigh.
Somewhere, men of the boarding house were playing cribbage, which could get pretty heated too—well, for them.
Gladys cracked her door open to listen, but nothing seemed amiss in the house. The bloomers for her aunt were meant as a surprise, so there would be no repercussions about them not being delivered now. Of course, with all this money, she could buy new linens galore . . . ones even nicer, and so much more.
She shut the door again, slipped into her nightgown—the one meant for winter—and crawled into bed. As she lay there thinking, it occurred to her that anyone could come in now to—
She got out of bed, and in the dark, shoveled the money under the covers with her. She’d plan what to do in the morning . . . if she could just get some sleep to clear her head now . . . it didn’t work though, and she tip-toed into the drawing room to help herself to the sherry—something she normally would never do.
But then, it had been a day for things like that.
~~~
The next morning, the money was still in the bed, though seemed to have surrounded her feet and ankles like it was a bog, pulling her under, or even some sort of creature, devouring her, feet-first.
Vile beast, she thought, thinking of her father again. What he would have done with this much cash—they could have—
She could hear her aunt yelling on the phone, something about the wiring again—bills, and more bills.
And not even new bloomers to cheer up the woman, as those things Gladys had purchased were not amongst what was in these bags. She dare not show anyone the money—at least, not yet.
What to do with the money though, Gladys wondered. She couldn’t just start spending it . . . could she?
What would my father do?
He’d bet it on the ponies, and it would be gone by the end of morning. But he was always looking to make the big score, gambling on the longest odds, and betting too much money in one shot—all or nothing.
She was more practical and better at calculating too. Gladys decided to follow her instincts this time. She hid half the money in the piano—for now—and then carefully opened a bit of the seams in the lining of her coat. She then slipped the rest of the money inside, arranging it so that it wasn’t too bulky or obvious in anyone spot. She then waited until she couldn’t hear her aunt anymore before she snuck out of house and caught a taxi a few streets over—another extravagance.
At the track, she studied the boards and the bookies and the races for at least an hour before she made her bets with the ones she felt were steady. The bets and bookies were safe enough, and most times, she won—but not always. It was probably a good thing though, because that kept her focused and conservative in her dealings. It also kept her from getting too much attention when she collected her winnings each time—never from the same one more than twice.
Over the course of the day, she had almost doubled the money she brought—only about half of the stuff in the bags. That’s all that would fit in the coat lining without showing, and besides, she didn’t want to lose it all if she was robbed or betting on the ponies.
She arranged what she could into her lining again, and the rest into her pockets, hat and purse, then took a taxi back to the Shady Oaks.
There she did a few hours work with some of the folks who didn’t seem to notice her flushed cheeks and giddiness. But she needed to release some of the rush that she got from winning before she went back to the boarding house. Was this what her father was looking for perhaps—this exhilaration? Or maybe he was looking for what the money represented then: comfort and security for the both of them.
Given he’d been a fighter pilot—a man who clearly loved adventure and danger and the suspense of what was around the next corner—she suspected it was the excitement he was after for him, but the security for her. Same with all the risks he took by swiping books and lifting things from people’s houses. Gladys felt guilty about that sometimes, but there was nothing that could be done about it but lead a better life now.
She made herself sit still for tea and discussion of rationing during the War as they ate real cake. She had been too young to remember that, but she knew about rationing anyway because of how they had lived—hand to mouth—all the years afterward.
Finally, when it was dark, she slipped out back into the alley and hurried along in a roundabout way to the back door of the boarding house, being careful not to make any noise on the way. If someone were following her (and she got that distinct impression) they would have lost her by the time she got home again—she made sure.
Even so, she didn’t turn on the lights and quickly locked the door behind her, bolting it too. She leaned back against it for a moment, wondering what more she could do.
Gladys rummaged in the bin and found a few empty cans to stack against the door as well, so that if anyone opened it, the cans would scatter, and she would hear . . . everyone would, she thought at first, but some were hard of hearing here, and others were willing to protect the house, but weak from age now or just timid.
It would have to do.
She peered out the curtains then, just to be sure—something was there! Her heart jumped in her chest, but that could have been a dog out there moving around. In a moment, she left the door, stack of cans intact.
Her aunt didn’t seem to notice her absence when Gladys checked on her, but she was glad the woman was happy enough to sit in her own little world, listening to old fashioned music and gently swaying in the chair as if she was dancing during the War.
Gladys asked one of the tenants to make sure her aunt ate properly when she wasn’t here, and also to play some old records for her too. In fact, she had suggested that they move the old phonograph into the common room so everyone could share it.
Everyone seemed happy with that and didn’t notice that Gladys was not around today—or the few days after that.
~~~
Gladys went back to the track the next day, and the next, winning modest amounts, but with great success. And each time, she only took a portion of the cash—the first day had been almost half—but then she took less, as she felt not only watched, but that she was being followed.
She waited a few days, then went again . . . then waited a few days more, and tried some more. Each time was lucrative, and she’d take a taxi from the track as a quick getaway—but only got out near to the Shady Oaks. In fact, tonight, she had such a bad feeling, she phoned her aunt to tell her she would be staying here in the rest home, as there was a cot in the manager’s office, just in case something came up that required more constant care than usual.
She settled in, wondering what the new day would bring, and if it was time to give it up . . . stop while I’m ahead, she thought. She knew her father would not. But I am not my father—
Something was wrong.
Gladys couldn’t tell if that scratching sound was rodents, the branches brushing outside, or maybe someone trying to get in. Finally, she got up and went to wake some of the old gentlemen. To a man, they all had their helmets and some form of battle implement: sword, pistol (unloaded, but who could tell?), cricket bat or golf club. They followed her around to check the windows and doors, turning on the lights as she did so.
It appeared to be a strong and determined contingent, if you were a miscreant looking in from outside.
If someone had been trying to break in, they had been repelled. The gentlemen, feeling victorious, broke into the manager’s supply of liquor. Some of the ladies had come down by then to see what was all the commotion. Dancing was done, and she had a hard time getting them all to bed once more.
Gladys took responsibility in the morning, feeling they earned the treat, due to the possible burglary. She did not mention her part in that: being the carrier of the money meant to be robbed, but she paid for the replacement of the liquor, so that it wouldn’t become an impediment to the trust the manager had in her.
The old gentlemen also made sure the locks were intact, and the windows were secure. Outside, they saw some footprints in the flowerbeds, but she wasn’t convinced they hadn’t done some of them in their zeal to inspect first.
Later that morning, she called a taxi and took a round about way to some shops. She bought a few things with money she kept on her person for emergencies—not using the money she had won at the track at all. She then had some lunch—a sandwich and soda pop outside a bo
okshop, then took another taxi to the park near the boarding house and told the cabbie to turn his engine off to wait for her.
The taxi driver said, “Not that I’m minding the fare, miss, but why don’t you just walk from here?”
She lied without considering: “I twisted my ankle, it’s still sore.”
But she wondered how he knew where she was ultimately going was near. Perhaps she would not go back to the racetrack anymore. After all, she had more than tripled the original amount of money, and that had been a substantial sum. Besides, she was running out of imagination as to her comings and goings; it was wearing on her nerves.
And one other point that was weighing on her conscience now: That money wasn’t hers to begin; someone must be missing it.
She told the taxi driver to take her quite some distance in the other direction, and then took the Tube to some more shops. She bought a new shade of lipstick and some other makeup—the kind she usually didn’t wear at all. In another shop, she bough a new coat (lining intact!), a larger handbag and scarf. She then slipped out the back of one shop and made her way through the alley into the back door of a pub—and directly into the ladies’ room there.
It was empty, thankfully—no explanations, not that she owed anyone anything, but people talk about anything unusual. Gladys transferred her things from her coat and purse to the new ones, leaving the old things behind in the stall. She put on the makeup, heavily too so she didn’t look like herself at all. With her hair tied back and covered with the new scarf, she walked out of the pub, caught a bus and made another roundabout way home.
~~~
Gladys saw the ad in the paper the very next day—something about parcels that had been mistakenly exchanged. It had only been a few days since she’d taken the packages away from the hotel—no, almost a fortnight already.
A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts Page 33
