On Mother Brown's Doorstep (19 page)

‘What’s she sayin’ now, Boots?’ asked Sammy helplessly.

‘She wants you to put the office kettle on,’ said Boots, as Chinese Lady advanced on Susie’s office door. At the door she turned, frowning.

‘I’ve just remembered,’ she said, ‘I’ve been readin’ about a murder done in a Bermondsey scrap metal yard. Boots, I hope it wasn’t an Adams yard.’

‘Well, old lady,’ said Boots at his most reassuring, ‘you can take it from me that we didn’t own any yard in Bermondsey until a couple of weeks ago.’

‘I don’t know I hold with you and Sammy bein’ in the scrap metal business at all,’ she said soberly. ‘There’s a lot of shifty people in that sort of trade. It’s no wonder there’s been a murder.’

‘Now don’t give our yards a bad name, Ma,’ said Sammy, ‘we don’t go in for anything shifty.’

‘I should hope not,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘That poor girl,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Still, I won’t keep on at you about your business, I don’t believe in bein’ interferin’, and I’m sure you both do your best. There’s some mothers that have got worse sons, a lot worse. You’re good boys most of the time. Well, I’ll see Susie now.’ She knocked.

‘Come in,’ called Susie, and Chinese Lady entered. Boots and Sammy heard Susie exclaim. ‘Oh, what a nice surprise, Mrs Finch.’ Finch was the name of Chinese Lady’s second husband, presently abroad on Government business.

Sammy grinned. Boots smiled. Chinese Lady would get her cup of tea. Susie thought the world of her future mother-in-law.

‘What a character,’ said Sammy.

‘Yes, not too many like her,’ said Boots, ‘she keeps putting us in ladies’ unmentionables.’

Twenty minutes later an open sports car pulled up outside the shop. In it were Rosie, Boots’s adopted daughter, and Rosie’s favourite teacher, Miss Polly Simms. Rosie, nearly eleven, was fair-haired, blue-eyed and enchantingly vivacious. Polly, an ex-ambulance driver of the Great War, was twenty-nine, her rich chestnut hair styled in a Colleen Moore bob, her vivid good looks accentuated by her large and expressive grey eyes. Her sense of humour was irrepressible, although there was often a brittle note to it, a legacy of her years among the men of France and Flanders. She regarded all surviving Tommies as old comrades. Her special regard for Boots, a survivor himself, was of an incurable kind, and it caused her a great deal of heart-burning.

‘I expect Daddy’s got his nose to the grindstone,’ said Rosie. She never thought about Boots as her adoptive father, simply as her one and only daddy. No-one, except perhaps Polly, quite knew just how much Rosie loved him.

‘Frightful, if he finishes up with no nose,’ said Polly.

‘Oh, he’d just say that that would save him having to blow it when he got a cold,’ said Rosie, and a little giggle arrived.

‘Yes, he would say that, wouldn’t he?’ smiled Polly, a cloche hat cuddling her head.

‘Nana says he’s airy-fairy.’

‘Is airy-fairy good or bad?’ asked Polly.

‘Well,’ said Rosie, ‘Nana’s always saying it wouldn’t have happened if she’d boxed his ears more often when he was younger.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard her talking to him,’ said Polly. She
spent
most Tuesday and Thursday evenings at the house which Boots and his family shared with his mother and stepfather. She was coaching and cramming Rosie for a scholarship exam next January.

‘I’d better go up and meet Nana now,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ll say hello to Daddy first.’

‘Yes, do him a favour, lift his nose off the grindstone for a few minutes,’ said Polly.

‘Whose nose?’ asked Boots, and they looked up. There he was standing beside the car, a smile lurking.

‘Oh, hello, Daddy, where did you spring from?’ asked Rosie.

‘I saw the pair of you from my window,’ said Boots.

‘You actually left your grindstone to come down and say hello?’ asked Polly.

‘What a blessing,’ said Rosie. ‘We don’t want you to wear your nose away, Daddy.’

‘Well, if I do I’ll have a wooden one fixed,’ said Boots, ‘and the grindstone can have a go at that.’

Rosie laughed.

‘We thought you’d say something like that, didn’t we, Miss Simms?’ said Rosie. ‘Is Nana up there, Daddy?’

‘Yes, she’s waiting for you in Susie’s office,’ said Boots, and Rosie scrambled out of the car, said goodbye to Polly and ran into the shop. ‘Thanks for giving her a lift, Polly.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Polly, ‘the girl’s adorable. So am I.’ She looked up at him from the car. She couldn’t help herself, she loved everything about him, his looks, his masculinity, his whimsical self and his lazy, almost blind left eye, which she always wanted to kiss. ‘Well, say something.’

‘Yes, all right, you’re adorable, Polly. Can’t stop, though, must get back to my desk.’

‘Stinker. Look, couldn’t we dash off to Paris together for a little while? Say for a year?’

‘Sounds exciting,’ said Boots, ‘and French.’

‘Do you mean I excite you?’ asked Polly.

‘Frequently,’ said Boots.

‘Well, then?’

‘Well what?’

‘You can manage a little adultery, can’t you?’ said Polly. A tram clanged by. People went by. The driver of a horse and cart whistled at Polly. She was oblivious of all the hustle and bustle of Camberwell Green, and didn’t even hear the whistle.

‘Polly, do you want to wreck my marriage?’ asked Boots.

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ said Boots, who had had this kind of conversation with her before.

‘Oh, come on, old love,’ said Polly, ‘meet me somewhere at midnight. Is it fair, is it even decent, for Emily to have all of you all the time?’

‘I’ll have to pass on that one,’ said Boots.

‘I hope you’ve heard that hell hath no fury,’ said Polly. ‘I’ve lived like a virgin ever since I met you, and I’m getting fed-up waiting for you to take me to bed. I’m going to sleep with the next man I meet, even if he’s hairy all over.’

‘Don’t do that, Polly.’

‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Polly, ‘why shouldn’t I?’

‘I’ll break your leg if you do,’ said Boots.

‘You’ll what?’ Polly stared at him. He actually looked as if he meant it.

‘Sorry, my mistake,’ said Boots, ‘it’s none of my business. See you at the house this evening.’ He went back to his office through the shop, leaving Polly almost giddy.
Suffering
pangs of love, she thought, he cares, he actually cares.

Chinese Lady’s special little gift to Rosie was a silver locket. She had already paid the Camberwell jeweller a deposit on it. She paid the balance and it became Rosie’s. She could place heart-shaped cut-outs from family snapshots inside it, one of Emily and one of Boots. Rosie was rapturous. She did the cut-outs as soon as she got home, and fitted them into the locket. One was a head and shoulders of Boots, the other of Emily and herself, their heads close together. Then, when she closed the locket, she and Emily were both kissing her daddy. Rosie felt blissful about that.

Henry Brannigan spent the evening with Madge in her new flat. He arrived with a bunch of flowers for her, which touched her considerably. But she still felt confused and uncertain, she still felt there must be a catch in the arrangement. She knew men well, of course. There weren’t many who would give on a generous scale to a woman and ask for nothing in return. Henry had said company was enough for him. He didn’t seem to quite realize exactly what he was doing for her. First and foremost he was relieving her of the wretched necessity of going out at night to pick up men in pubs. For three nights now she hadn’t had to do that. The pleasure of keeping her body to herself surprised her.

She asked him where he lived. He told her.

‘You’ve just got one room in yer sister’s place?’ she said. She had the fire alight and they were sitting in front of it. She wore the short skirt and teasing petticoat he had said he liked. ‘Henry, that’s daft, you livin’ in one room
when
you could easy afford a flat. Does yer sister cook for you of an evenin’?’

‘No, I always eat a good meal midday,’ he said.

‘But you ’ave to ’ave something of an evenin’,’ said Madge.

‘Well, I frequently pick up fried fish when I’m out walkin’.’

‘You shouldn’t ’ave to do that,’ said Madge. ‘I’ll do a light supper for both of us every evenin’.’

‘I wouldn’t want to ask that of yer,’ said Henry Brannigan.

‘You ’aven’t asked,’ said Madge, ‘I’ve offered. You come ’ere at seven every evenin’ and we’ll eat supper together. You like company, you said—’

‘I like your company.’

‘Well, I like company meself.’

‘You’re a good woman,’ he said.

‘I was once, I ain’t able to call meself that now.’

‘Perhaps you ain’t been all that respectable, but that don’t mean you’re not a good woman.’

‘Well, it’s downright kind of you to say so, Henry.’ Madge eyed his gaunt look. ‘’Ave you been sufferin’ on account of losin’ yer wife?’

‘It’s been on me mind,’ he said.

‘Still, you’re lookin’ a bit better since I first met yer,’ said Madge. His eyes weren’t so dark and brooding. He looked more satisfied with life. ‘Didn’t you ’ave any children?’

‘No, no children,’ he said. ‘Nor you, of course.’

‘No, nor me,’ she said. ‘Missed out on that, didn’t I?’

‘Now don’t let it worry you,’ he said. ‘What you didn’t ’ave an’ what me an’ Matilda didn’t ’ave won’t be missed. There’s too many perishin’ kids, anyway. They get under yer feet ten at a time in some places.’

‘Henry, you can’t blame kids for bein’ born,’ said Madge, ‘and it would please me to ’ear you talk less uncharitable about them.’

‘What’s this? Givin’ me orders, are yer, lady?’

‘As if I would,’ said Madge.

‘Only jokin’,’ he said. ‘Now, ’ow about a walk and pickin’ up some fish an’ chips?’

‘You don’t ’ave to break me arm, not over fish an’ chips,’ she said. ‘I’ll be pleasured to walk to the shop with yer, Henry.’

‘We’ll watch the lines, eh?’

‘Henry, we don’t ’ave to do that all the time, only when we’re in the mood. I’ll ’ave to take yer mind off doin’ it all the time, or you’ll get too serious about it.’

‘We’ll see,’ he said.

‘I’ll put me ’at an’ coat on,’ said Madge.

They enjoyed a nice companionable walk down to the shop, and she went along with his wish for them not to tread on visible lines.

The inquest on the young Bermondsey girl was held on Friday. Boots attended, with Mr Brown. It was merely a question of the parents confirming what day it was when their daughter went out for a walk and never returned, and of Mr Brown confirming how the body was found. That, together with the post-mortem report, proved enough to bring in a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown.

The Saturday newspapers published details of the inquest. Mr Brown, whose name was mentioned, collared the family’s newspaper when it plopped on to the mat and took it to work with him. He did not bring it home with him. Saturday, anyway, wasn’t a day when too many people sat down with their dailies.

Mrs Mason did mention the matter to her lodger, Mr Ponsonby, on his way out of the house, however.

‘What, what?’ he said.

‘The pore gel, Mr Ponsonby, down Bermondsey way. Murdered, she was. It says so in the paper.’

‘Dear goodness, what are we coming to, Mrs Mason?’

‘Found in a scrap yard, ’er body was, by some workmen an’ the yard manager. ’Orrible. I ’ope they catch the brute that done it.’

‘What a day, what a day,’ sighed Mr Ponsonby. ‘What can be done to such people?’

‘Hang ’em,’ said Mrs Mason.

‘Yes, indeed. Ah, now I’ve forgotten where I’m going.’

‘Down the market,’ said Mrs Mason.

‘Ah, so I am, so I am.’ Mr Ponsonby beamed at his landlady. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t forget to come back,’ said Mrs Mason.

It was mid-afternoon, and Mr Ponsonby, having found his way to the East Street market, was about to inspect the rosy apples on a fruit stall when he came face to face with the unpleasant person whose path he’d crossed some days ago. Certainly, he was dressed more acceptably, in a trilby hat and suit that looked new, but Mr Ponsonby recognized him immediately with his dark eyes and dark features. And, as before, they were in each other’s way. Mr Ponsonby at once brought up his rolled umbrella to hold the fellow off.

Henry Brannigan stared at him.

‘What’s up with you?’ he asked.

‘Mind your manners, sir, I shall not give way,’ said Mr Ponsonby.

‘Eh?’ Henry Brannigan gave the silly old sod a surprised look before realizing there was something familiar about him. His memory placed him among the many people with
whom
he’d had pavement confrontations. And that led him to recognition. ‘Oh, it’s you, you barmy old bugger,’ he said.

‘Stand off,’ said Mr Ponsonby.

‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello,’ said the stallholder, ‘you gents set for a ding-dong, are yer? Well, don’t get in the way of me customers or me bananas.’

Henry Brannigan, his life much less bedevilled by fantasies since finding a woman who was a kindred spirit, pushed the brolly aside quite good-temperedly.

‘No ’ard feelings, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s only on pavements that I don’t like people gettin’ in me way.’ He made a little detour, brushing Mr Ponsonby’s shoulder unaggressively as he went by him.

‘What an ugly fellow,’ murmured Mr Ponsonby to his umbrella. ‘Ought to be hanged, ought to be hanged. I must tell Mrs Mason. Now, what was I doing?’

‘WELL, JUST LOOK
at our Annie,’ said Charlie.

Sunday dinner was over and everything tidied up. The Gaffer was ready to relax with
The People
, and Charlie, Nellie and Cassie were thinking of going to Ruskin Park, Cassie in the hope that the Prince of Wales would be there, when she could ask him if he’d mind giving her father a job guarding Buckingham Palace on a horse. As for Annie, she’d just come down from her bedroom in a pure white cotton dress with a scalloped hem that lightly danced around her knees. With it she wore a long string of beads and a round straw hat that sat on the back of her head like a crisp yellow halo. The dress, the beads and imitation silk stockings turned her into a fashionable flapper.

‘That’s our Annie?’ said the Gaffer.