by Pat Herbert
“You know she’s married?”
Robiespierre didn’t know that, but didn’t really care. It made his life that much easier when it came time to move on.
“Got a kiddie, too,” she said. She stood by his table, awaiting his reaction.
He looked up at her and put his paper down on the table. He sighed. Priggish woman, he thought. Trying to stir it up, jealous cat.
“Has she? Well that’s nice for her and her husband,” he said blithely. “Are you trying to insinuate something?” he added darkly.
Monica looked taken aback for a moment. Then she drew herself up to her full five foot eight inches and gave him a faint smile.
“No. Why? Just telling you. Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
She shrugged. “You know that more than me.” With that she left him to mull over the information she had provided.
It was all very well for women like Dulcie. Get all the men they want and then some. She had a little girl, just two years old, and a more angelic child you could never meet in a month of Sundays. Dulcie sometimes got her to babysit when she had a date, although most of the time it was her husband who looked after her. Poor old Colin, she thought, he doesn’t know the half of it.
“What was you saying to that man?” said Dulcie when Monica returned to the bar. “Give me them glasses. You never wash them properly.”
“Pleasure. Here.” Dulcie put the glasses into the foaming sink and Monica watched as she went to work on them.
“Eh? What was you saying to him?” Dulcie repeated. “Now dry them properly, mind.”
Monica took up the freshly washed glasses and started to rub them vigorously, one by one. It helped to take her frustration out on something, even if it was only inanimate objects like beer glasses.
“I just told him, that’s all,” she said enigmatically.
“Told him what? For Gawd’s sake, Mon, you’ll drive me mad.”
“That you was married with a kiddie.”
“You’d no business to,” said Dulcie, wiping her hands. “You keep that out.” She pointed an accusing finger at Monica’s rather prominent beaky nose.
“I don’t care what you do, but it ain’t fair on your Colin.”
“He don’t have to know. You ain’t gonna tell him, are you?”
“No, ’course not. What d’you take me for?”
“A bleedin’ nosy parker, that’s what,” said Dulcie, turning to the next customer. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t go out with a handsome man if you got the chance.” Or even an ugly one, she said under her breath.
“Well, I don’t get the chance, do I? And anyway I wouldn’t if I was married. So there!”
After this frank exchange of views, the evening passed uneventfully until the bell for last orders sounded. Robespierre Fentiman was still there, supping his fifth pint. Draining his glass, he strode up to the bar.
“Hello,” said Dulcie. “You want one more before I put the towel on?”
“No, no thanks. Better not. Are you doing anything tomorrow night?”
Dulcie smiled sadly. “Working here, I’m afraid. But I get a night off on Wednesday.”
Robespierre grinned lasciviously. “Fancy the pictures?”
“Ooh, yes. Can we go and see that Cary Grant flick? It’s on at the Plaza. You know the one about the leopard.”
“I hear it’s a scream,” said Robespierre. “It’s a date, then. I’ll meet you outside the cinema at seven o’clock on Wednesday.”
As he left the pub, Monica sniffed. She wanted to see “Bringing Up Baby” too. And sometimes, when people were feeling kind, they said she reminded them of Katharine Hepburn, the other star of the film. She wanted to see her for herself, but then, no one was ever likely to ask her to go to the pictures with them. She’d have to go with her mum on Saturday afternoon, that’s all.
She looked at Dulcie enviously, as she put on her fake fur coat and touched up her lipstick in preparation for her return home to her cuckolded husband and little daughter.
Summer, 1956
Nancy Harper usually did her morning shopping between the hours of nine and ten, to avoid the eleven o’clock rush. She knew that most women liked to do their housework first so that it was usually not before eleven that they managed to get out to the shops with their wicker baskets over their arms and shopping lists in their hands.
Nancy Harper didn’t like queueing and found it more comfortable when she avoided the crowds. Not that Wandsworth High Street had that many crowds during the weekdays; Saturdays was a different matter. If her vicar wanted fresh fish on a Saturday, he could whistle for it as far as she was concerned. The queue at the fishmongers then was usually around the block.
But this was a Tuesday morning and all was peaceful along the small row of shops nearest the vicarage. Nancy hardly ever ventured into the parade of stores at the top of the high street; it was too far for one thing; and they were too expensive and busy, for another. She liked the little grocery store presided over by the pleasantly plump Mrs Latimer. She enjoyed passing the time of day with her while she purchased her half pound of tea or quarter pound of cheese. She derived a lot of gossip from that quarter also; Mrs Latimer was a fount of knowledge on the local goings on and Mrs Harper was one of her favourite confidantes.
Having gleaned all the gossip for that day, Mrs Harper bumped into Lucy Carter as she was leaving the shop.
“Hello, Mrs Aitch,” smiled Lucy. “How’s everything?”
“Hmmph!” said Mrs Harper helpfully. There was a wealth of meaning in it, but Lucy was used to her friend’s little ways. She was a grumpy old so-and-so, but you didn’t mind that; it was just her way. She’d do anything for you if push came to shove, and that was all that mattered really.
“You all right, love?” queried Lucy, pausing before entering the shop.
“As I’ll ever be,” said Mrs Harper. “’Is nibs is getting on my nerves though. I can’t get through the ’ousework nowadays without ’e complains I’ve got the wireless on too loud. Only the other day ’e complained about that Alma Cogan song – you know, the ‘Twenty Tiny Fingers’ tune. I was doing the dusting and ’e asked me to turn it off. Said it gave ’im an ’eadache or something – oh no, it was something to do with a christening ’e’d ’ad that morning. Said the father of the twins ’e was babtising kept ’umming it at ’im.”
Lucy laughed. “Well, I can’t say I blame him,” she said. “They play that record all the time, it seems to me. Gets on my nerves, it does. As for that Alma Cogan woman – who does she think she is? All that feathery stuff she wears. Looks like a deformed chicken, if you ask me. And as for her waist. How can anyone have a waist that small?” Was there a note of envy in her tone?
“I don’t say nothing against ’er, meself,” observed Mrs Harper. “She’s got a nice voice, anyhow. Nice and cheerful. But you don’t look your usual cheerful self, Luce,” she added. It was true. Lucy Carter looked distinctly pale and drawn, as if she hadn’t slept all night.
“Oh, I’m all right. It’s just – oh, you know…”
“You mean that Dr MacTavish of yours? ’E’s more often at the vicarage these days though. I sometimes wonder if ’e thinks ’is ’ome’s there. Always under my feet that one.”
Mrs Harper could see that her companion was close to tears. “Look, I’ve got ’arf an hour. Why don’t we pop over to Fred’s for a cuppa and a chat?”
“You got any fags, Nance?” she asked, as Mrs Harper led her friend across the road to Fred’s café. “I’m all out.”
“You should give it up,” said Mrs Harper seriously. “I bet Dr Mac don’t like you smoking.”
“He doesn’t like a lot of things I do, apparently,” she said miserably, as Nancy Harper brought the tea over to her table. “Thanks, Nance. Ask Fred for one, will you?”
“Fred says you shouldn’t smoke neither,” sniffed Mrs Harper.
“Tell him to mind his own business,” snapped Lucy. “Just tell him to
give me a fag.”
The eponymous owner of the café, stepped from behind the counter, and headed towards their table, bearing a packet of Senior Service in his fat little hand.
“All right, all right, Lucy love. No need to burst a blood vessel. Here, take the lot. There’s about five left in there. Do yourself a favour and calm down.” So saying, he put the cigarettes down on the table and chucked the comely Lucy under her fast doubling chin. He then returned to his counter without another word.
“Salt of the earth, that bloke,” said Mrs Harper, striking a match for Lucy’s much-needed cigarette.
Lucy puffed gratefully and smiled her thanks over to Fred. Fred gave her the thumbs up and carried on serving his next customer.
“Now, ducks, what’s the trouble. What has that nasty Scotchman been up to this time?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, I suppose…”
“Which means what?”
Lucy stared out of the window, tears starting in her eyes again. “Looks like rain,” she prevaricated.
“And I look like Greta Garbo,” said Nancy Harper impatiently. “I ’aven’t got all day, gel. Tell me the problem or else let me get on. This tea’s too bloody strong for me. I must show Fred ’ow to make a proper cuppa one of these fine days.”
“Sorry, Nance. I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, I expect.”
“Go on. Mountains and molehills, my Aunt Fanny. That doctor is a bit of a one for the ladies and I don’t mind betting ’e’s found another bit of skirt that’s took ’is fancy. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Not far off the mark, as it happens,” said Lucy. “Do you know that barmaid at the Feathers? The new one?”
Mrs Harper looked daggers at her. “The Feathers? What would I know about the Feathers? I don’t go in pubs, you should know that by now.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry. But I thought you might have heard about her from old Ma Latimer. She seems to be the first to know everyone’s business.”
“Now you come to mention it, she did say something about a blonde bint that all the men seem to fancy. Freda somebody…”
“Lossways. Stupid name. Yes, that’s her. Well Robbie’s obviously taken with her, that’s for sure.”
“’Ow d’you know?”
“He’s taken her out, that’s how I know.”
“Taken ’er out? But she’s married, ain’t she? And, from what I got from old Latimer, she’s practically ’alf ’is age.”
Lucy shrugged as she took a welcome drag on her cigarette. Mrs Harper could see her hand was shaking as she did so.
“Doesn’t seem to have made any difference,” she said, as she blew an expert smoke ring in Nancy’s direction. “He took her to the zoo, of all places, yesterday afternoon. Her afternoon off, I suppose. At least he can’t take her out much at night, seeing as how she’s behind the bar then.”
Mrs Harper was genuinely shocked. As much as she professed to disapprove of Robbie, she secretly liked him very much, and was disappointed that he had so far strayed from the straight and narrow as to take out a married woman. Did Bernard know, she wondered.
“I must say, I wouln’t ’ave thought ’e’d ’ave done that. She probably didn’t tell ’im she was married,” said Nancy, bending over backwards to exonerate him.
Lucy sighed. “Probably, but he shouldn’t have taken her out at all. He always tells me that I’m all he needs.” She didn’t specify what those needs were, but Nancy, being a woman of the world, didn’t need to cudgel her brains too much to get the picture.
“’E’s not playing fair by you, Luce,” said Mrs Harper. “’Ow did you find out any’ow?”
“Oh, there’s always some bright spark ready to put the boot in,” said Lucy noncommittally. “You know. The type that likes to pour cold water on your life.”
Mrs Harper knew the sort only too well. “It might not be true, of course,” she said. “Could ’ave got ’old of the wrong end of the stick.”
Lucy sighed again. Whatever end of the stick her informant had got hold of, she was sure it was the right one.
Summer, 1956
Carl Fentiman was a very confused young man. A new father of twins, he had his hands full with them alone. At work, he was battling to keep his job because of a threatened takeover, and, in his garden shed, where he could normally find a bit of peace, there was the ghost of his father hanging from the ceiling. Added to this, he wasn’t even sure it was his father; he looked like him, sounded like him and even dressed like him, according to one of the few photos Carl had in his possession. But, then, he was an identical twin, just like he was himself, and just like his own twelve-month old babies.
He knew it had been a waste of time consulting the vicar who had baptised them. He looked pretty useless, really, and he had been cross when one of the twins peed down his trousers. Carl couldn’t understand it. Weren’t vicars supposed to be good, benevolent sort of people? Didn’t they know that peeing down people’s trousers was something all babies did? Still, he had given him the benefit of the doubt and decided to go and see him, mainly because he just didn’t know who else to turn to. After all, ghostly visions were well out of his ken, and well out of most of his friends’ ken too. They would just have laughed at him if he had confided in them, telling him to ‘pull himself together’ or some such other platitude. At least the vicar hadn’t dismissed his story out of hand; it seemed as if the Reverend Paltoquet was used to hearing that sort of thing on a regular basis. He’d even told him that his friend, Dr MacTavish, would also be very interested, and that he had a friend who was a clairvoyant.
But he hadn’t been able to suggest anything so far. Still, it was too soon to write him off as a waste of time. He’d said he’d make some enquiries on his behalf and would get in touch soon. He’d also professed a wish to come and see the ghost for himself.
Carl opened the shed door gingerly. The ghostly vision had been hanging there every day since the first time he’d seen it a week ago; it was getting monotonous. It was also monotonous to hear him keep saying he was an innocent man and nothing more. Today, he was determined to make sure the ghost he was seeing was indeed his father and just exactly what he wanted of him.
There he was, swinging away up there as usual. He cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Just who are you and what do you want? I can’t help you unless you communicate properly with me. If, as you say, you were wrongly hanged for murder, I need to know all the details if I’m going to help you.” There, he thought, pick the bones out of that.
The ghostly man swung around several times, before coming to a halt in front of him. His feet were level with his nose.
“I’m your father, dammit,” he said in his rather sonorous, grave-like voice. “Can’t you tell?”
“Seeing as how I was only ten when you were – er – when you died, and that you had a twin brother – uncle Danton – I’m not at all sure. No. Also you’re rather fuzzy, you know. Not as clear as you would be if you were alive.”
The hanged man swung around again, this time with ill-concealed impatience. “Bother the boy!” he grunted. “If I can’t convince you who I am, how on earth am I going to convince anyone else?”
“Well, exactly. Besides, what’s done is done. Even if you were proved to be innocent, no one can bring you back to life…”
“Of course not! I know that! I’m not daft. I just want to be dug up from unconsecrated ground and reburied properly. Not too much to ask, is it?”
“Well, when you put it like that, I suppose not. But how can I go about proving your innocence? You really are my dad? Robey?”
“Robespierre Fentiman is, and always was, my name. My brother – your uncle – was a thoroughly bad lot, so there!”
“Well he was hanged as well so, according to you, justice has been served,” said Carl. “But I still can’t believe that Uncle Danton was so evil. You were always the black sheep, now you can’t deny it. And Uncle Dan was too drippy to be bad.”
Robespierre Fentiman gl
ared down at his son. “I wish I’d planted myself in Basil’s shed now. I’m sure he wouldn’t be giving me such a hard time as you. Anyway, I’m feeling weak now, so I can’t speak for much longer…”
Carl noticed that the vision was already starting to fade. His father’s feet were beginning to disappear in a kind of vapour. He rubbed his eyes and refocused them on what remained of the hanging man. Just his head and neck, with the rope still around it. Being a head and neck, the vision still managed to get out the words, “I didn’t kill that woman. It wasn’t me!” And then he was gone. All gone.
Peace at last. Carl Fentiman decided that he would call his twin brother, Basil, that evening. He wasn’t about to take the burden of all this on his own shoulders. Besides, his father had said he’d wished he had appeared to Basil instead of him. This had secretly upset him as, in life, he had always been the favourite son. Basil had been the favourite of his uncle. But if his father thought Basil would be of more help than himself, so be it. Next time he visited his shed, Basil would be with him.
Autumn 1936
Colin Mortimer had long since fallen out of love with his wife; she thought he didn’t know what she did on her evenings off. Told him she was working, did she? He knew what she was up to but, quite frankly, he didn’t care. Just as long as little Freddie was left in his care, that’s all that mattered.
Dulcie wasn’t without a pang of conscience or two; but not too many. Robespierre Fentiman was too handsome to pass up. Sometimes, when men chatted her up at the bar, which they inevitably did most evenings, she told them in no uncertain terms that she was a ‘respectable married woman’, but this was only when the chatter-upper wasn’t to her taste. There was many a likely lad who had had his fingers burned that way. She knew her appearance pleased the male customers, as she made herself up to resemble Jean Harlow, the blonde bombshell film star and she played this up for all she was worth.
Tonight she was being wined and dined by this man with the strange name, and she was loving every minute of it. The restaurant in the West End where he had taken her was discreet, but tasteful – all soft lights and intimate tables. Just right for clandestine lovers such as themselves.
