The Camberwell Raid (8 page)

‘Developments?’ said Rosie.

‘Regarding Eloise’s attitude now that she’s been with you for three months,’ said Polly.

‘You could say the attachment is strengthening day by day,’ smiled Rosie.

‘Her attachment to all of you generally?’ said Polly.

‘To all of us generally, and to her new-found father in particular,’ said Rosie.

The menus arrived, and one was left for Eloise.

‘Inevitable, I suppose, that she favours Boots,’ said Polly.

‘Oh, she’s really quite sweet,’ said Rosie, ‘although she’d monopolize him, if she could. But he’s too sensible to allow that.’

‘Well, Rosie my sweet, I really wouldn’t want anything to break up the special relationship you and Boots enjoy,’ said Polly. ‘You two go together like mustard and cress, like Adam and – let’s see, ducky, who was Adam’s first and most cherished daughter?’

‘God knows, but I don’t,’ said Rosie, which brought forth Polly’s quick brittle laugh. ‘And isn’t it Adam and his wife Eve who go together like mustard and cress?’

‘If you say so,’ murmured Polly, hoping Rosie didn’t mean Boots and Emily.

‘Special relationships are sacred, of course,’ said Rosie. And she smiled at Polly, well aware that this vivacious and endearing woman considered her own relationship with Boots to be distinctly special and closely guarded.

Mr Tooley thought about calling Boots from a public phone box to let him know Rosie’s natural father had turned up out of the blue. But he decided against. After all, the bloke had departed in as civilized a way as you’d expect of a gent, accepting the advice that the best thing was to go back to being anonymous. Yes, that was the word, anonymous. Mr Tooley couldn’t ever remember Rosie asking who her father was, and he didn’t think she’d ever asked Boots any inquisitive questions about him. Not that Boots could have answered them. Mr Tooley knew he had told her how she came about, and he’d done that when she was of an age to understand and not to brood about it. And the fact was, Rosie never showed the slightest interest in either her natural mother or the man who had fathered her. She lived for her adoptive family, and always had from the time they took her in. Even
at
five, when she first came to know Boots, he was the one she saw as a coveted father figure.

No point really in phoning Boots, no point in mentioning something that might stir things up, not when the natural father had accepted the situation. Anyway, perhaps Boots and Emily would come with Rosie to his wedding with Ada in due course. He might just have a quiet word with Boots then.

‘We’ll have to do three or four practice runs,’ said Ginger Carstairs that afternoon.

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ said Dusty Miller.

‘We need to arrive at the station just before the train’s due,’ said Carstairs, ‘it’s not going to be too clever if we have to hang about on the platform getting noticed, and it’ll make me cross if we get there too late and miss it.’

‘Point is, we can’t advance the time that we do the bank,’ said Miller.

‘No, we can’t,’ agreed Ginger Carstairs, ‘it’s got to be just before the bank shuts to avoid inconvenient interruptions. I’ve decided we’ve got to give the main road a miss, and come out on Denmark Hill by way of back streets. Too much traffic on the main road. Buses, trams, lorries, carts and God knows what else. That’s what made us five minutes late on our first practice run. We’d have missed the train. We’ll begin the new practice run not later than six minutes after three-thirty tomorrow, since we don’t plan to hang about in the bank. I’ve got the new route worked out, and just to make sure how long it takes us on average, we’ll do a couple of other runs before our collecting day. Who’s that?’

The street door had resounded to a double knock.

‘Well, a double knock’s for upstairs,’ said Miller. ‘That’s me.’

‘Leave it,’ said Carstairs.

‘No, my landlady’s in, and if I don’t answer it, she will,’ said Miller. ‘She knows I’m up here.’ Down he went and found the milkman on the doorstep.

‘Caught you,’ said Bill Chambers amiably. He was on his afternoon round. ‘You were out Saturday, so mind if I collect the owings now?’

‘How much, mate?’

‘A bob, Mr Barnes,’ said Bill.

‘Here we are,’ said Miller, who was calling himself Barnes for the time being. He paid up. Bill recorded the payment in his book.

‘Any eggs?’ he said.

‘Do I look like a chicken?’ said Miller, and closed the door. Not in the least upset, Bill returned to his float. Then something struck him.

The bloke Barnes was another customer who didn’t have milk every day. Well, he wouldn’t, would he, being single. So what about that comely Mrs Hyams? All she had for herself and Mr Hyams was four pints a week, which wasn’t usual for a married couple. A pint a day was what most couples ordered, and more, of course, if there were kids, and there were plenty of kids in Walworth. Very prolific, many Walworth married couples were, as if a lot of kids made up for a lack of other possessions. Well, no-one could say the lively kids of Walworth were a liability. Not that they were always dear to their mums and dads. Bill had heard angry mums and bawling dads threatening to drown their offspring. Still, when they grew up and got jobs they contributed their whack to the housekeeping, which was a mellowing thing to most
mums
and dads. I might have had some kids myself if Dorothy hadn’t taken all of ten years to hold me off. I think she was keeping me in reserve.

Anyway, on account of Mrs Hyams only using four pints of milk a week, she couldn’t have any of her children living at home. Four pints, in fact, would hardly be enough for herself and Mr Hyams, and she certainly couldn’t make much custard or rice puddings. Perhaps they used some condensed milk here and there. I’ll have to sell her off that stuff, thought Bill, and persuade her to order extra pints of our fresh cows’ milk. Not that she doesn’t look a healthy woman. Never saw a healthier. Wonder if she’s synagogue? Well, I don’t think Hyams is a good old Anglo-Saxon monicker. Makes no difference, though, she’s still the best-looker on my round.

Bill led his horse and float around a standing blue van painted with the sign ‘Joseph Roberts, Family Baker’, and went whistling on his way.

Miller, meanwhile, having rejoined Carstairs, suggested it hadn’t been a very good idea to have left the van outside. Carstairs said it wouldn’t be there above a minute more, and in any case people didn’t notice bakers’ vans. People were just lumps of dough who could walk and talk. All the same, said Miller, a pro wouldn’t have left the van there. Carstairs gave him a stony look.

‘Well, Charles?’ said Cecily over the phone.

‘What are you ringing about?’ asked Major Armitage from his country pile.

‘I’m simply curious to know if you’ve been making enquiries,’ said Cecily.

‘In short, yes.’

‘Well, then?’

‘It’s a girl,’ said Major Armitage.

‘You have a daughter, old thing?’

‘Yes, and an astonishing one. She’s a student at Somerville College, Oxford.’

‘Heavens,’ said Cecily, ‘not a Deptford cockney?’

‘Far from it, I fancy,’ said Major Armitage, and recounted the more relevant details of his conversation with the girl’s grandfather, a Mr Tooley. Cecily ventured to say that adoption meant the claim of the natural father had no standing in law. Major Armitage said he’d contest that, for he’d signed no papers himself. Cecily suggested that before he began any legal contest, he should first find out how the girl would react.

‘I mean, is she going to jump for joy at the prospect of leaving her adoptive parents for a new life with you?’

‘I intend to visit the family and to meet her, and to take it from there,’ said Major Armitage.

‘And if the family and she herself oppose your wishes?’

‘I mean to fight,’ said Major Armitage. ‘The adoptive parents have had their time with her. Now I need to have mine.’

‘She’s of a marriageable age, Charles, and you may not have her for longer than a year.’

‘I don’t see it like that. She’s an Armitage, certainly in looks and probably in character. Frankly, I’ve very little idea of what her mother looked like, but I take your word for it that she was pretty. However, having seen so many snapshots of Rosie herself, I’d say she was positively an Armitage. She belongs far more to me than to her mother or her adoptive parents. I’ve
consulted
my solicitor, but he’s a glum old pessimist, and thinks, in fact, that counsel will advise me I’ve no case.’

‘You’ll wait for that opinion before making any further move?’ said Cecily.

‘Not at all. I shall call on the adoptive parents, since I obviously need to sound them out. And candidly, I can’t wait to meet my daughter.’

‘Then I wish you luck, my dear,’ said Cecily. ‘Judging by much of what you say the grandfather told you, you may find yourself regarded as an unwanted intruder.’

‘I’m prepared for initial reactions to be hostile,’ said Major Armitage, ‘yet I feel the girl won’t be totally unresponsive. However deep her attachment is to her adoptive parents, I believe some rapport will develop between us.’

‘You believe, of course, that one Armitage will recognize another,’ said Cecily.

‘A blood link can’t be set aside, Cecily.’

‘You mean she may elect to take up life as an Armitage and live under your roof because of the blood link?’

‘It’s a reasonable possibility,’ said Major Armitage.

‘Then again I wish you luck, dear man,’ said Cecily.

NICK WAS HAVING
a meeting with Freddy, Horace and Horace’s old school friend, Percy Ricketts, in Ma’s parlour. Under discussion were the duties of a best man, which meant, as Nick had said, that it had got to be serious stuff. We all know, he said, that both brides aren’t the kind of young ladies to put up with sloppy performances. Nick himself was Freddy’s best man, and Percy was taking on the same role for Horace.

‘Nothing to it,’ said Percy, once he’d been put fully into the picture by Nick and Freddy, who had attended other weddings. This was Percy’s first as an adult guest, and certainly as a best man.

‘Just remember not to misplace the ring,’ said Horace, ‘and to make your speech short.’

‘And clean,’ said Freddy. ‘There’s two brides, remember, and I’m on knowledgeable terms with both, Sally bein’ my sister and Cassie havin’ been me best mate for years. I can inform you, Percy, any dubious stuff like did you ’ear the one about the bride that called for a policeman, and they’ll both ask to ’ave you removed.’

‘So might my mother,’ said Horace. ‘She’s a Christian lady, as you all know—’

‘Granted,’ said Nick.

‘But she’s not fond of anything dubious,’ said Horace.

‘Fortunately, my mum can never get the drift of what’s saucy about weddin’ jokes,’ said Freddy, ‘but Cassie won’t go for knickers bein’ mentioned.’

‘Nor Sally,’ said Horace.

‘Well, I’ll admit I’ve never made a best man’s speech before,’ said Percy, ‘but I’ve heard there’s always some funny stories.’

‘Funny’s all right,’ said Nick, ‘but nothing you couldn’t tell your grandma.’

‘Well, what about this one?’ said Percy. ‘The bridal couple were at their honeymoon hotel, the bride Myrtle was in bed and the bridegroom Claud was in the bathroom along the corridor. He was all ready to join his blushing young bride, bein’ in his pyjamas, but he was takin’ his time to clean his teeth and so on. Well, he was girding himself up for his weddin’ night, naturally, so he was takin’ a long time. Eventually, however, he made his way back to the room, but on account of his nerves and bein’ a bit dithery as well, he went into the wrong one.’

‘What a chump,’ said Horace.

‘There was a woman in the bed,’ continued Percy, ‘and she sat up a bit smart when Claud entered. He saw she was about forty, so he went a bit pale and said, “Ruddy hell, Myrtle, have I been as long as that?”’

‘That’ll pass,’ said Freddy.

‘Minus ruddy hell,’ said Horace.

‘Yes, I like it,’ said Nick, ‘I’ll polish it up a bit and use it.’

‘You what?’ said Percy.

‘Yes, thanks, Percy,’ said Nick.

‘Hold on,’ said Percy, ‘it’s my story.’

‘Yes, and it’s a good one,’ said Nick, ‘so I’ll use
it
. Luckily, I’ll be making my speech first, Cassie and Freddy being the younger couple.’

‘I’m bein’ robbed,’ said Percy, ‘and I thought we were all mates.’

‘Yes, but Nick’s captain of the football team,’ said Freddy.

‘Bugger that,’ said Percy, ‘no-one’s marrying the football team.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Nick, ‘I’ll give you a poem you can include in your own speech.’

‘What poem?’ asked Percy, and Nick quoted.

‘“There was once a girl called Sally

Who floated up the aisle on a Saturday,

But in front of her bloke

Her elastic broke,

And down dropped her knickers, unhappily.”’

‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Freddy. ‘Unless Orrice minds.’

‘Here, hold on,’ protested Percy, ‘I thought you said knickers weren’t to be mentioned?’

‘Chance it,’ said Freddy.

‘I might if the poem was any good,’ said Percy, ‘but it’s ruddy pathetic, and besides, it’s takin’ the mickey out of Sally, and Orrice as well.’

‘Orrice ’asn’t said so,’ pointed out Freddy.

‘Well, I’ll say it now, that joke’s out, Percy,’ declared Horace.

‘Here, don’t look at me,’ said Percy, ‘it came from Nick.’

‘Don’t use it,’ said Horace. ‘If you do, Sally will break legs. Ours. She’ll know it’s a put-up job.’

‘All right, I’ll have my story back,’ said Percy, ‘and you can keep your poem, Nick.’

‘Sorry, Percy,’ said Nick.

‘Yes, ’ard luck, mate,’ said Freddy, ‘good try.’

‘Whose side you on?’ asked Percy.

‘Nick’s,’ said Freddy, ‘he’s my best man. And I daresay you can find another story.’

‘Yes,’ said Horace, ‘how about the one where a bloke married a twin sister? On their weddin’ night, when they were undressing, she said jokingly, “How d’you know I’m not my sister Shirley?” “Easy,” he said, “you don’t wear French knickers.”’

‘I like that,’ said Freddy.