The Runaway (3 page)

‘Just room for a littl’un,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Shove up, ladies and gents all.’

Polly obeyed, squeezing past several strap-hanging passengers until she was once again near enough to overhear the older girls’ conversation, but Myra, both taller and more robust than her friend, was unable to follow suit. Too small to strap hang comfortably, Polly
was glad of the opportunity to listen once more, since it took her mind off her aching arm. She heard Dee trying to persuade Caitlin to accompany her in her search for the landlord, and when at last the ginger-haired girl was successful Polly had hard work not to cheer.

The conductor rang his bell and bawled the name of her stop, and she began to push her way past the other passengers again, a quick glance over her shoulder telling her that the two older girls were getting off as well. Myra, she knew, would remain aboard for another three stops. Suddenly, she decided that instead of going straight to the girls’ home, which was where she was billeted until she was old enough to find accommodation for herself, she would follow Dana and Caitlin and have a look at this butcher’s shop for herself. She was on the pavement first and turned as the two older girls alighted, Caitlin talking animatedly whilst Dee listened and interjected a word now and then. Polly smiled at them and was pleased when Dee said: ‘How’re you doing, Polly?’ She thought it kind of the older girl to remember her name, for she had only been at the Dining Rooms for a few weeks and so far had spent most of her time alone in the vegetable scullery, knocking earth off spuds, chopping the tops off carrots and removing caterpillars and similar bugs from the cosy homes they had made for themselves in the big pale green cabbages.

She dropped behind Dee and Caitlin and presently found herself approaching a dingy shop frontage with the words
J. T. Rayner, Family Butcher
in faded lettering above the dirty bow window. The older girls went right up to the glass and peered inside but Polly, afraid of being accused of nosy parkering, hung back until Dana
and Caitlin, after some conversation which Polly was too far away to hear, suddenly dived into the newspaper and tobacconist’s shop next door. Hastily Polly scooted the few yards which separated her from the butcher’s window and had her nose actually pressed to the glass when the older girls emerged, scrutinising a piece of paper and pointing up the road. Polly was debating whether to follow them when a tram passed and drew up at a stop a little way ahead. Dana and Caitlin began to run and the conductor, about to ring his bell, swung out on the pole and yelled to the girls to hurry because he and his driver had their timetable to consider.

Polly made no attempt to climb aboard, looking pointedly the other way as she neared the tram; she had no pennies to spare, nor any idea of her fellow workers’ eventual destination. As soon as the vehicle had trundled out of sight, however, she returned to the butcher’s shop. Even from outside she fancied she could smell the whiff of bad meat and it was easy to guess at the state of the whole place after only a cursory glance. As Ernie had said, it was thick with bluebottles, the sawdust on the floor churned up and filthy, the long wooden counter bloodstained. Through the open door which led into the back room, Polly could see not only the disgusting state of the place but the stairs which she guessed must lead to the flat above. She could not see the back door, and was standing on tiptoe in an effort to improve her view when somebody jabbed something hard between her shoulder blades and a voice growled: ‘Stick ’em up!’

Polly jumped guiltily, then swung round, having recognised Ernie’s voice. ‘Leave off!’ she commanded
wrathfully. ‘Stick ’em up yourself! Who do you think you are, perishin’ Tom Mix?’

‘Nah, he’s old hat; I’m Gary Cooper I am,’ Ernie said. He cocked his cap to one side and affected an American drawl. ‘Who’s you spyin’ on, sister? Or is you thinkin’ of takin’ old Squab-nose’s shop on?’ He chuckled hoarsely. ‘Or d’you mean to offer old Thwaite a few dollars for them pesky bluebottles?’ He dropped the phoney accent and dived a hand into the pocket of his shabby jacket, producing a crumpled paper bag. ‘Want a pear drop? Old Clegg, what cleans down when the Dining Rooms is shut, give me a threepenny joe for fetching his pipe tobacco.’

‘I don’t mind if I do,’ Polly said, taking a sweet and tucking it comfortably into her cheek. ‘Thanks, Ernie. And now I’m off home or I’ll miss me supper.’

Having acquired Mr Thwaite’s address from the obliging tobacconist, Dana had thought that it would be a simple matter to call on the landlord and ask him whether he would rent the flat above the butcher’s shop. However, it was more than a month before she and Caitlin managed to find him at home when they called. After so many fruitless attempts to catch him it was not really surprising that Caitlin wanted to give up, but on this occasion, just before they turned away, Dana cocked an ear and grabbed her friend’s arm, for she had heard footsteps approaching the door from the other side. Presently it creaked open and a small, grey-haired man in his shirtsleeves stood staring at them whilst his jaws worked rhythmically; clearly he was eating his supper. It was almost eight thirty, for a helpful neighbour had advised them to ‘Try
later, young ladies, say half past eight or nine o’clock. Mr Thwaite collects his rents evenings, when folks is home after their day’s work. Or you might catch him come midday. His housekeeper cooks him a good dinner and he’s usually home between noon and two o’clock.’

The girls were always at work lunchtimes, but now the helpful neighbour’s advice was proving to be correct, for the small man chewed, swallowed, and then snapped: ‘Yes?’ in such an unfriendly tone that Caitlin stepped back, blinking.

Dana, however, was made of sterner stuff. ‘Mr Thwaite?’ she said. ‘I wonder if we might have a word; it’s about some premises which we believe you own. If we might come in for a moment …’

As she spoke, she moved forward, and since Caitlin hastily followed suit the small man was forced to step back. After a moment’s hesitation, he ushered them through a doorway into a small parlour where he clicked on the light, saying suspiciously as he did so: ‘I’m sure I don’t know that any of my premises would interest young ladies … are you summat to do with the sanitary inspector? Because if so—’

‘No, no,’ Dana said hastily. ‘We were told you owned Rayner’s butcher shop, and the flat above it. It’s the flat which interests us. We’ve been told your rents are reasonable …’ behind her back she crossed her fingers since, truth to tell, they had heard nothing good about either Mr Thwaite or his properties, ‘and as we understand it Mr Rayner moved out a month ago.’

‘Yes, I own Rayner’s shop,’ Mr Thwaite admitted. ‘And I won’t deny it’s for rent. It’s a grand little property, in a good trading position. Mr Rayner’s retired, seeing as
how he’s made his pile there, but what would you young ladies want with a butcher’s shop? I’ve never let property to a woman, save hairdressers, and most of them is backed by a feller.’

‘It isn’t the shop we want but the flat above,’ Dana said eagerly. ‘If the rent was right, we’d undertake to clean the shop for you. If it was spotless, with fresh paint and clean sawdust on the floor, I’m sure someone else would take it as – as a lock-up …’

Mr Thwaite pulled his narrow lips into a sneer. ‘So you don’t want the shop at all?’ he said disagreeably. ‘Then we won’t waste any more of each other’s time. Good day to you.’

He ushered them out of the parlour, but even as he opened the front door, jerking his head at the two girls, Dana spoke again. ‘If you let us rent the flat and someone else took the shop, then you’d be getting double rent,’ she said craftily. ‘That sounds like good business sense to me, Mr Thwaite.’

The landlord snorted. ‘Forget it,’ he said harshly. ‘I don’t do business wi’ children.’ And before they could even think of a crushing retort, they found themselves out on the pavement with the door slamming shut behind them.

Dana stamped her foot. ‘Horrible, mean little miser,’ she raged. ‘He wasn’t even prepared to listen, let alone show us over the flat. Oh, Caitlin, I’ve never wished I was a man before, but I wish it now. He’d have listened to a man, and if he was rude, like he was to us, a man would have punched him on the nose.’

Caitlin giggled. ‘You’re daft, you are,’ she said affectionately. ‘Tell you what, shall I have a word with James?
At least he could find out how much old Thwaite is asking for the rent of the flat and the shop. He might even persuade the old devil to show him round. If it’s a three-bedroom, or even a two, we could easily find enough girls to make a flat-share a real possibility.’

‘It seems such a cheek,’ Dana said. ‘I’ve never met him, remember; he might be willing to help you, but not me. We’re total strangers, after all.’

Caitlin put her head on one side, considering her friend’s remark, then brightened. ‘You’re right, of course; if he is to help us, and I do believe he can, then the sooner you and he meet the better. You’ll like him, I know you will, and he’ll like you.’ She turned a somewhat doubtful gaze upon her friend. ‘He’s different from any other man I’ve ever gone out with. He’s … oh, I can’t describe him, but I’m sure you’ll like each other. Tell you what. I’ve asked him to meet me outside the Grafton during the first interval tomorrow, so you can come outside as well. I’ll introduce you and explain the problem with Mr Thwaite, and I’m sure he’ll help us.’

Dana agreed to this rather reluctantly. During the time she and Caitlin had known each other, she had met at least half a dozen of Caitlin’s boyfriends, all of whom had been in their mid-twenties, extremely handsome and quite well off: not the sort of young men to make much impression upon Mr Thwaite. But Caitlin was insistent that James Mortimer was different, so more for the sake of peace than anything else Dana agreed to the meeting.

The following evening, she and Caitlin donned their party dresses, then set off for the ballroom with their dancing pumps in paper carriers. At the first interval, when everyone else was queuing for a glass of
orangeade and a couple of Marie biscuits, Caitlin dragged Dana out of the ballroom, both girls having had their wrists stamped to ensure free readmittance when the interval was over.

Outside, the stars and moon blazed down from a dark sky and Dana wished she had retrieved her coat from the cloakroom, for it was distinctly chilly. The pavement was quite crowded, predominantly with young men, several of whom looked at her friend with interest and one might, she supposed, be James Mortimer, unsure of whom to approach in the tricky lamplight.

‘There he is!’ Caitlin said as a young man came towards them. He was tall, slim and blond, and Dana’s heart sank. It was just as she had supposed: this man would make about as much impression upon Mr Thwaite as she and Caitlin had done. Oh, he might have money, but she guessed that Mr Thwaite would want more than that before he parted with any information, let alone considered renting his property to someone.

‘Dana, this is my friend, Mr James Mortimer. James, this is Miss Dana McBride; I told you about her when we first met.’

Dana stared, but as Mr James Mortimer held out his hand she automatically placed her own in it. The fair young man had walked straight past them; clearly, he was nothing to do with Caitlin. The man whose hand grasped hers so firmly was a very different kettle of fish. He was in his mid to late thirties, squat and powerful, with broad shoulders and a crop of dark curly hair, silvering at the temples. He was dark-eyed and olive-skinned and he emanated a sort of ruthless power to which Caitlin was clearly not immune. The fact that he
was an inch or so shorter than Dana herself was surprising, but he did not seem at all worried by his lack of inches; in fact when Caitlin had introduced him and he had put out his hand, his eyes had met Dana’s squarely as though they were of a height.

‘How do you do, Miss McBride,’ he said formally. His voice had a suspicion of a cockney twang, and as his dark eyes flickered over her Dana realised that he was sizing her up, trying to probe beneath her very ordinary appearance to the young woman beneath. Without meaning to do so, she realised she was bristling; what a cheek! But then he gave her a lopsided grin, and suddenly she saw why he had attracted her notoriously fussy friend. He was neither tall, blond nor handsome, but he had something … and she was in no doubt that if he chose to espouse their cause he would at least get the information they wanted from Mr Thwaite.

But what about his relationship with Caitlin? As Dana watched her friend telling him what the landlord had said, she found herself hoping guiltily that it was just a passing phase, and he would move on. She was truly fond of the other girl but was forced to admit, if only to herself, that Caitlin was not clever. Beautiful, yes, bright and bouncy, good company, but not clever. And she rather thought that this powerful, fascinating man would demand more than looks from his future wife.

But the bell which announced that the interval was over sounded at this point and Mr Mortimer said he would accompany them into the ballroom provided that they would both give him a dance. ‘We’ll discuss your business with this Thwaite when the dance is over,’ he said, taking Caitlin’s arm in a proprietorial
fashion. ‘I’m not much of a dancer, but I enjoy watching others.’

Dana, smiling and nodding, wondered if he was married; at his age it was quite possible. She put the point to Caitlin whilst Mr Mortimer – she could not think of him as James – deposited his coat in the cloakroom, but her friend shook her head. ‘He said he’s been too busy building up his business to think about marriage,’ she said. ‘But now he truly believes I’m the girl he’s been looking for all his life.’ She sighed dramatically. ‘He’s ever so kind. He’s a real man, not like the boys I’ve been going about with.’

‘True,’ Dana said. Mr Mortimer was clearly a man of the world, with considerable experience of business matters, she guessed.

‘Look, if you agree I’ll do as I suggested and ask him to see Mr Thwaite for us and find out everything we want to know about Rayner’s flat,’ Caitlin said. ‘He’ll know just what questions to ask and whether old Thwaite was telling the truth or lying like – like a flat fish.’