Sons and Daughters (28 page)

‘Who’d you think you are? William the Conqueror? Well, I’m no Saxon starveling. So drop dead, Willy.’

‘Whose trousers are they, anyway? Your dad’s?’

‘Tell me, go on, why should they be my dad’s?’

‘On you, they look baggy.’

‘Baggy?’

‘Believe me,’ said Paul. ‘Well, you’ve got very nice hips and those trousers are too wide in the thereabouts.’

‘You cretin,’ said Lulu. ‘I’ll smash your chair up again in a minute. Have you made an inspection of my hips?’

‘Yes, very nice they are too,’ said Paul. ‘Rounded but not bulky. Graceful, rather. Pity about the trousers, but all right, wear them for today. Just don’t let me catch sight of them tomorrow. Now let’s do some work before a deputation of Young Socialists from Crampton Street arrives to demand a demonstration in favour of supporting Soviet Russia’s beef with America. Mind, that’ll be never-ending. Stalin’s always beefing about America.’

‘So he should,’ said Lulu. ‘America’s criminally capitalistic. And listen, Napoleon. What I choose to wear is my business. Not yours.’

‘You arrive in trousers tomorrow,’ said Paul, ‘and I’ll do the job myself of yanking them off you.’

‘Ha ha,’ said Lulu.

However, she was wearing a skirt the following morning, plus a fixed expression that suggested any untoward comments from Paul would put his life in danger.

Paul, noting the signs, said, ‘Good morning, Miss Saunders, happy to see you.’

‘Yourself, you look a little better than you did yesterday,’ said Lulu.

‘How did I look yesterday?’

‘As if tarty Henrietta had half-eaten you the night before.’

‘I didn’t see her the night before.’

‘Really? I thought you must have made a date with her while you were doing a lot together in the kitchen.’

‘In the kitchen,’ said Paul, ‘I was telling her I didn’t really have time to help her with her lonely old maids.’

‘Oh, you managed to be a bit manly instead of a bit limp, did you?’ said Lulu, and sat down at her desk. Paul showed a little grin. Well, the kneehole of the desk presented its view of a fine pair of feminine legs, and he had nothing in common with an unappreciative lump of wood. ‘Are you giving an impression of the Cheshire cat from
Alice in Wonderland
?’ asked Lulu.

‘Pardon?’ said Paul. ‘No, never mind, the new leaflets are in, so we’ll patrol Walworth Road today and hand ’em out.’

‘You and I will?’ said Lulu.

‘We could do a lot together in Walworth Road, even if only for an hour or two,’ said Paul.

Lulu chucked an eraser at him.

Boots made a phone call to the
South London Press
from his office. This excellent local paper had covered the traffic incident at Camberwell Green,
and some obliging reporter on the news desk answered Boots’s enquiry as to the name of the injured car driver.

‘George Wheeler.’

‘Thanks,’ said Boots, and rang King’s College Hospital. He asked reception how Mr George Wheeler was.

‘Are you a relative, or a friend?’

‘A friend.’

‘Then you probably know he has a broken right shoulder, fractured ribs and a broken right leg.’

‘Grim for poor old George,’ said Boots, ‘but it could have been worse, and it usually is when you argue with a bus. What’s his condition like?’

‘Low but stable.’

‘So he’s not up to receiving visitors yet?’

‘Give him two or three more days.’

‘Thank you.’

Boots let Sammy know they couldn’t call on the patient yet.

Rosie and Emma were packaging eggs in a converted stable. The stable, close to the large cottage, had always been incorporated in the freehold of the latter.

The packed eggs, eight hundred of them and fresh that day, would be collected for distribution to London restaurants.

The phone, on an extension from the cottage, rang its tune. Rosie picked it up.

‘Surrey Downs Poultry Farm.’

‘That you, Rosie? Major Gorringe here. Now
look here, Rosie old girl, what the devil’s going off there at night? Sounds like a dervish with his arse on fire.’

‘It’s an alarm system,’ said Rosie. Gilbert Gorringe, a retired Army major, was a neighbour, hearty, bluff, and no nonsense. ‘To frighten off foxes.’

‘Foxes my Aunt Fanny. It’s putting the wind up Mildred.’ Mildred was his wife. ‘Fell out of the bloody bed when it went off last night. I thought Matt was going to shoot the bushy-tails.’

‘He and Jonathan have tried, I assure you,’ said Rosie.

‘What, what? Missed ’em, did they? Well, I’m coming over myself with my pea-shooter.’

‘You’re very welcome, Major,’ said Rosie, ‘but it’s rare for us to see them by day.’

‘I’ll bring Wellington. He’ll sniff ’em out.’ Wellington was his Yorkshire terrier. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. Where are Matt and Jonathan?’

‘Delivering laying hens to customers in Westerham,’ said Rosie.

‘Right, Rosie. Leave it to me, and I’ll blast the backsides off those blankety-blank perishers,’ said Major Gorringe.

He arrived as promised, a large, red-faced man, square of shoulders and ramrod of back. He put his head into the egg-packing chamber.

‘Hello,’ said Rosie.

‘Hello,’ said Emma, her infant daughter toddling about.

‘Good morning, ladies, that’s the stuff, you both
look splendid,’ said Major Gorringe. ‘Won’t interrupt you, I just want to know I’ve got your official permission to do my shooting on your land, Rosie.’

‘Go ahead, Major,’ said Rosie, dressed, like Emma, in a white smock.

‘Right. Now, where’s that bloody dog? Wellington?’ He roared the name. Wellington responded with an excited bark, and off went the major, gun under his arm.

He was away for an hour and a half, during which time Rosie and Emma heard the periodic crack of his rifle.

‘He’s enjoying himself,’ said Emma.

‘He’s probably ordering the foxes to stand to attention before he pulls the trigger,’ said Rosie.

‘Well, people do say Mrs Gorringe has to stand to attention for morning inspection,’ said Emma.

‘Do we believe that?’ smiled Rosie, placing eggs in a shaped fibre tray that held two dozen.

‘It’s credible to me,’ said Emma, one eye on little Jessie, the other on eggs.

‘He’s a character,’ said Rosie.

When Major Gorringe returned, he presented himself smartly to Rosie and Emma.

‘Good sortie, ladies. Wellington sniffed ’em out, got ’em running in front of my shooter. Bagged a full quartet, two dog foxes and two vixens. All flea-ridden, by God. I’ll ring Doug Paterson of East Surrey Hounds and get him to pick up the carcases to feed to his pack. I’ll be obliged if you’ll inform Matt and Jonathan, and hope your alarm won’t put the wind up Mildred from now on.’

‘Matt and Jonathan will be delighted at the news,’ said Rosie.

‘I’m thrilled and relieved,’ said Emma.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said the major. ‘Damn good hunting for me and Wellington. Hrrmph, your chick’s just fallen on her botty, Emma. Stand her to attention. Good morning, ladies.’

Matthew, on hearing of Major Gorringe’s success in despatching four foxes, said he’d let the alarm stay on this night, just to make sure.

It was only an hour after dark that the floodlight blazed and the banshee sound howled. Matthew woke up cursing, Major Gorringe woke up swearing, and Mrs Gorringe, waking up shrieking, fell out of bed. Major Gorringe helped her up and stood her to attention.

In the cottage, Matthew said, ‘Damn my shirt tails, Rosie, either the major missed our pair or they’ve risen from the dead.’

‘From what we know about that pair,’ said Rosie, ‘I’ll opt for risen from the dead. And they’ll burrow under the wire one night when they get used to the floodlight and the howl.’

Chinese Lady said, ‘I don’t know, time just seems to be running away, Edwin.’

‘It does run faster, Maisie, when one has turned sixty,’ said Mr Finch.

‘Oh, lor’,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘in no time at all I’ll be Lady Finch, and I still won’t know how to talk to my neighbours and old friends.’

‘You’ll manage, my dear, just as you’ve managed everything else of a problematical kind,’ said Mr Finch, who had received official confirmation of the honour being accorded him.

‘Well,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘I’m not sure about problem—what was the word, Edwin?’

‘Problematical,’ said Mr Finch.

‘I can’t remember anything like that happening to me,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘What I do remember is Sammy giving me headaches every time he went out of my front door in Walworth. Well, I never knew what he was going to get up to.’

‘What he got up to, Maisie, turned out to be notable,’ said Mr Finch.

‘Yes, lining his pocket,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘That boy and his liking for money just wasn’t respectable. Edwin, I won’t have to do any curtseying at Buckingham Palace, will I?’

‘No, Maisie, none, you’ll be shown to a seat and you’ll only be required to observe the ceremony.’

‘That’s a mercy,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Edwin?’

‘Thank you, Maisie, very much,’ said the understanding Mr Finch.

‘What the hell’s happening with the Parson?’ growled Mr Ben Ford, the Fat Man.

‘I ain’t heard from him meself,’ said Large Lump.

‘Well, shift yourself,’ said Fat Man. ‘Rat off to Soho and ask questions. Find out what his official monicker is, and where he lives.’

‘Asking about official monickers in Soho, guv, ain’t supposed to be too healthy,’ said Large Lump.

‘Take the back-up with you,’ wheezed Fat Man. ‘Do a bit of eye-gouging if you have to. I want to know where the Parson’s got to with me fifty nickers. If he’s on his way to Australia, I’ve been done to a turn, and I ain’t going to like it.’

‘Guv, I got recommendations about him being honest, didn’t I?’ said Large Lump.

‘If honesty with my fifty oners is on the way to Australia,’ said Fat Man, ‘I’ll dock your bleedin’ wages. So shove off to Soho and start asking. I
want to know why Sammy Adams, or his brother Boots, ain’t crippled yet. Then there’s Tommy Adams. Is he still walking about uncrippled? Get moving.’

Off went Large Lump, leaving the Fat Man to brood on the dishonesty of people these days. You couldn’t trust anyone. What with that and the continuing downtrend in the prices of scrap metal, and cocky bleedin’ Sammy Adams, he’d be better off emigrating to the Isle of Wight.

A little parcel, registered for safe delivery, arrived for Bess. Opening it, she discovered a slim volume of poems by William Wordsworth, and a greeting from Jeremy Passmore on the flyleaf.

‘To Bess, a delightful companion for some happy hours on one of Wordsworth’s little islands on Lake Windermere, August 1949. With every good wish. Jeremy.’

There was also a brief covering letter from Mr Dan Passmore.

‘Dear Miss Adams, I’m enclosing a book Jeremy handed to me just before he left, asking me to send it on to you, which I felt I must do. And I’d like to say it was a pleasure talking to you on the phone. Yours sincerely, Dan Passmore.’

Bess, delighted with the book, acknowledged its receipt in a letter of thanks.

‘Well, isn’t it nice?’ said Susie, leafing through the book. ‘It’s poems. Sammy, look.’

Sammy took his turn to glance through the volume.

‘Always being busy trying to earn a bit of the ready for me dear old ma,’ he said, ‘I never had much time for reading books, Bess.’

‘Oh, rotten hard luck, Dad,’ said Bess.

‘And I only know one poem,’ said Sammy.

‘Which one is that?’ asked Jimmy.

‘Well, let’s see,’ said Sammy, and quoted.

‘“A merchant of London put his profit

Into a Cheapside safe deposit
,

But very sad to say
,

On a heartbreaking day
,

The Germans dropped bombs and he lost it.”’

‘He ought to have put it in his old socks, like you did, Dad,’ said Paula.

‘Daddy, you don’t still do that, do you?’ said Phoebe.

‘No, not much,’ said Sammy. ‘Anyway, this book of poems shows this feller Jeremy has got a soft spot for our Bess.’

‘Romantic,’ said Paula.

‘Is she blushing?’ asked Phoebe.

‘I can’t see any signs,’ said Jimmy.

‘You can all stop looking,’ said Bess.

‘But she’s supposed to blush, isn’t she?’ said Phoebe, giggling.

‘She might have, a hundred years ago,’ said Jimmy.

‘Don’t be soppy,’ said Paula. ‘Mum, did you blush when Dad did things that showed he had a soft spot for you?’

‘What things?’ asked Jimmy.

‘I’m innocent,’ said Sammy. ‘I was then, and I am now.’

‘But didn’t you ever send Mum a Valentine card before you were married?’ asked Paula.

‘Valentine cards cost money,’ said Susie, ‘tuppence each at least. But you can forget about him being innocent. He actually gave me some fancy undies for a Christmas present once.’

‘Undies, Mum?’ said Bess. ‘Before you were married, and in those days?’

‘Yes, would you believe?’ said Susie.

‘Dad, you saucy old thing,’ said Paula.

‘Mummy, what did you do?’ asked Phoebe.

‘Blushed,’ said Susie. ‘I was the innocent one, not your dad.’

The morning after he’d been sent to Soho on an enquiry job, Large Lump reported to the Fat Man that he’d had no joy.

‘You standing there like the Rock of Gibraltar with nothing good coming out of your concrete?’ gurgled Fat Man.

‘Well, I did me best, guv, with me back-up standing by,’ said Large Lump. ‘We stayed there till gone midnight, asking around all the time, but no-one invited me to sit down and put me ear to his cakehole. I got to tell yer, guv, that I’m short on information for yer, like.’

‘You’re bleedin’ useless,’ yelled Fat Man out of his blubber.

‘Hold hard, guv,’ said Large Lump, ‘I showed me knuckledusters, didn’t I? And me intentions if nobody spoke up. And I trod on more’n one foot. But I never met such a gorblimey kiss-my-elbow lot. Mind, I did say you don’t make no friends, asking around in a place like that.’

Fat Man began a wheezing rumble of discontent, mainly to the effect that no-one on his payroll was earning his dibs, that he’d be better off hiring bob-a-job Boy Scouts. Large Lump mumbled something about he didn’t like listening to ingratitude.