Perce made clucking sounds.
“All right. All right. Me and Mrs. Perce wasn’t born yesterday. I’ll let you know what time the race is, see. Then you comes down just afore it, an’ says you gone to look for me, an’ you leaves Miss Clara in the car.”
“What car? The only car what we got belongs to Mr. Willis.”
“Strewth, don’t bring ’im along. If there’s trouble, an’ there could be mind, you are innocent as an unborn baby, you was only puttin’ on the cocks and ’ens for me, you never bet more than a oncer in yer life, an’ the kids never ’ad a bet afore. If that mouthpiece is around it won’t be so ’ot. That sort’s so sharp it’s a wonder they don’t cut theirselves.”
“Don’t know where I’ll get a car. Money’s tight since the old B was took, and there won’t be much until Miss Clara’s fixed what to do about everythin’.”
Perce laughed.
“Come off of it. If what I’m layin’ on comes off the way I reckon it will, you won’t need to worry to find a car. You can buy a garridge full of ’em, so I reckon you can oblige with the cost of ‘irin’ one for the afternoon.”
“What price you reckon he’ll start at?”
“Ten to one.”
Henry whistled.
“Ten to one! A thousand nicker!”
“That’s right. An’ if what I’m workin’ come along it’s a cert for ’e can’t be bumped nor nothin’, for ’e’ll be round the track an’ past the post afore the other dogs ’as got goin’. The only thin’ that worries me is ’ow to get the bees on afore anyone smells anythin’.”
Henry thought of Nobby.
“I know a feller might come. Knows Botchley. I’ll see if I can fix it. That dog won’t ’alf ’ave to do a vanishin’ act after.”
Perce laughed.
“You trust me. The vanishin’ lady ain’t nothin’ to it.”
Henry had only just replaced the receiver when Julie came up the stairs carrying Clara’s fairing shopping bag. Since she and Andrew had come to live in the flat as residents she had taken it for granted she would do her share of the housework. They had only been back three days and they had been three shy days for Julie. She could not see how she had been so silly as to talk to Henry about Charles. It was not as if there was anything really to talk about. When she was with him she clung to any subject to chatter about to escape even a look which would remind her that he had seen her cry, and knew what the tears were about. Now, though she had noticed nothing, she teased him about the telephone.
“Were you talking to your best girl?”
Henry knew how Julie felt, and knew she would get over it if he left her alone. He took the shopping bag from her.
“Better get on with the veg, ’adn’t we?”
Julie was taking over most of the cooking. Henry was a shocking cook and she was a good one. Henry did not mind, for she was not too much in his kitchen. By six at the latest Charles was round to fetch her out and much of the rest of the day she was upstairs washing, ironing and mending.
While preparing vegetables for a stew Henry took Julie partly into his confidence.
“The old gent wouldn’t ’ave liked Perce to go short, ’e reckoned to keep ’is fourteen dogs along of ’im, they don’t bring Perce in much but it comes regular. Miss Clara ’as been to see the place an’ was ever so satisfied. That was Perce telephonin’ now. Miss Clara wants to see ’er dogs racin’ and Perce was sayin’ some of ’em would be out second Saturday afternoon in December.”
Nothing was mentioned that Julie did not consider in relation to herself and Charles.
“Charles could come along too.”
Henry appeared to be concentrating on the carrot he was scraping. His voice was casual.
“There’s dog racin’ and dog racin’. The old gent, ’e didn’t go in for it in a flash way, ’e fancied little tracks. A track called Botchley Lane is where ’is dogs races mostly.”
Julie laughed.
“It’s all right, you can come clean. Most years the men who tent with us back dogs, and in the winter go to the tracks. I know the names.”
Henry had not thought of that possibility. Julie and Andrew seemed such innocents.
“You two ever ’ad a bet?”
Julie sliced a turnip.
“Never, we wouldn’t know how to.”
Henry, saying mentally, “Thank Gawd for that,” relaxed.
“Got to learn sometime. When we get to Botchley I’ll show you both ’ow, but not with your own money, though, mind you, if you was to risk a bit it would do no ’arm. Sometimes Perce puts me on to somethin’ good.”
Julie nodded but she was thinking of the wasted afternoon.
“Charles will be all right. He could take us in his car. If you think it’s all right Aunt Clara’s dogs being with Perce and racing at Botchley he won’t interfere.”
The right answer fell like a gift into Henry’s brain.
“It’s ’im I’m thinkin’ of. You see, a gentleman like ’im didn’t ought to be seen except on a regular track.” Henry’s words made Julie stop working. Her expression showed she was struggling against shyness, that she longed to speak but could not find the opening words. Henry sensed this was the moment to break down the little barrier which had grown between them since she had cried on his table. “What is it, ducks? You can tell old ’enry, can’t you?”
Julie leant on the table, her eyes fixed on Henry’s.
“Would you answer two questions truthfully?” Henry nodded. Julie took a breath as though she was gathering strength for a race, her words fell over each other. “Don’t you think my hair looks shocking? I mean, a girl of the sort Charles usually goes with wouldn’t have peroxided hair, would she? And would you know from how I speak where I come from?”
Henry tried to be tactful.
“It looks dyed, a course, and dyed ’air never looks the same as what natural does, it was all right for the circus but it’d look better natural now you aren’t workin’. But there’s nothin’ you can do about it, so I wouldn’t worry, I daresay ’e’s got used to it by now.”
“In other words it looks terrible, which is just what I thought. But I can change that. Now, what about the way I speak?”
Henry grinned.
“Since you ask me, you speak a bit B.B.C. So did Andrew when ’e first come, but ’e’s dropped it now.”
“Is it awful to speak B.B.C.?”
Henry looked in a puzzled way at the vegetables in front of him.
“It’s all right if it comes natural, but it’s terrible when it’s put on like. You know I speak somethin’ shockin’, but it’s natural, see. I don’t think you can ’elp it, it’s the way you been taught.”
“But you’d know at once it was taught, and wasn’t natural. I mean like the way Charles speaks is natural.”
“Of course. The moment Mr. Willis opens ’is north and south you can ’ear where ’e belongs.”
“And when I open mine you can hear where I belong?”
“You did oughter, but the funny thin’ with you is you can’t. I can with Andrew mind, ’e speaks nice a course when you ’ear ’im against me, but you don’t need one ear let alone two, to know it ain’t what ’e was born with. Now you, though you don’t speak no different to what Andrew does, seem different somehow. I reckon your old man was class. Andrew says your Mum said ’e was a marquis. Shouldn’t wonder if it was true.”
Shyly Julie looked at the table.
“I wish it was true, if it was I could learn to be the sort of girl that Charles knows, couldn’t I?”
Henry picked up his knife.
“You an’ me won’t ’alf catch it if we don’t get on. Miss Clara don’t get nothin’ but a sandwich at that mission.”
“I wish she needn’t go every day. Must she? I think she gets tired. She doesn’t look as well as that time you came to see the show.”
“No wonder. Look at the weather, ’nough to give you the sick, and then the journey. Takes ’er an hour each wa
y.” He broke off and stared at Julie. “D’you know what? You could ’elp to keep ’er at ’ome. I got an idea see.”
At tea time when Clara came home Julie was waiting for her. She took off Clara’s voluminous coat, and helped her off with the galoshes she wore when it was damp, and settled her in a chair by the drawing-room fire. Clara felt the constriction in her throat which came to her when she received an unexpected kindness.
“Julie, you spoil me. I’m quite unused to being looked after, usually I’m looking after other people.”
Julie sat on the floor at Clara’s feet.
“Henry’s getting your tea ready. I wanted to ask you something.”
Clara smiled. This was what she had hoped would happen some day. Little Julie treating her as an understanding old aunt, just as the nieces did.
“Yes, dear?”
It was not easy for Julie. She was not yet comfortable with Clara, who was still a “they,” the workings of whose mind she had not penetrated. But Clara was an experienced listener, accustomed to give her whole mind to the pourer-out of troubles, sifting what she heard as the stream flowed by her ears. She had thought about the children’s voices, wondering why they had been taught to speak in that way, and had been comforted to notice they were not as terrible as those put-on voices sometimes were. She was touched and humbled to hear that Julie had just spoken to Henry about hers. Dear Henry, what a good man he was, so full of understanding, it was no wonder Julie chose him to come to with her worries. As the stream of words eddied by, Clara’s sifting brought to the surface the reason behind what Julie was saying. At the mission she was constantly hearing confessions from girls, or about girls, from worried mothers. Whatever they had done the motive was almost invariably the same, a wish to please some man. Clara had heard of shop-lifting and stealing for make-up and clothes. She knew of homes in which there was near civil war over latchkeys. Of cases of petty pilfering for permanent waves. Now she added a new want to her collection of girlish needs: an educated accent. Dear little Julie, she was growing fond of Charles! How splendid if she had been right that day they went to see the horses, and Charles was growing fond of Julie.
“You mustn’t think,” said Julie, “that I’m speaking against Aunt Bess, she’s wonderful to us, but meeting you, and others like you I can’t help noticing, can I? How do I get to talk like you do?”
How indeed! Clara tried to remember who, if anybody, had told her how words were pronounced.
“I don’t think there’s much to learn, dear. Now and again there’s a little slip, but we can soon put that right, it’s just the way you shape the words. I’m such a muddled old thing, I doubt if I’m the person to help you, perhaps somebody who teaches elocution . . .”
Julie’s interruption shot out.
“No. It must be you or nobody.”
Clara’s ear held the pronunciation of “you.”
“I don’t get much time, but I’ll see what I can do. I learnt to sing as a girl, not that I could, but girls did then, it was part of our education, you know, and I remember vowel sounds were important. We might find a few minutes every day to practise those.”
“Not a few minutes please, I’d like to get quite right, and that’ll take time. Couldn’t you stay at home a bit and teach me?”
On the words “stay at home” Clara’s heart lifted. Home! And Julie had said it. It would be delightful to stay at home, not to have to make that exhausting journey, not to be expected at the mission every day, but would it be right? Wouldn’t it be a giving in to temptation? It was so easy to persuade herself that it was as much, and even more, her duty to stay at home sitting by a warm fire teaching Julie, as to drag herself to South London.
“It would be delightful dear, nothing I should like better, but would it be right? I must think it over and let you know.”
“I don’t see why you bother about that old mission, it’s a nasty journey and makes you tired.”
Clara patted Julie’s cheek.
“Naughty girl. It’s a splendid little mission, such good people work there, and the folk I help are such dears. I don’t say I may not decide to stay away for a time to help you if I can, you are a sacred trust, but I can’t decide in a hurry. Remember the hymn, dear, ‘In this world of darkness we must shine—You in your small corner, and I in mine.’”
Clara spent the evening pondering over Julie’s request, and before she went to bed she found the answer. Andrew, who was tired after a day’s hard practice at the gymnasium, had started to put up his bed the moment Clara left the drawing-room, so she found Henry, who was filling her hot-water bottle, alone in the kitchen.
“Henry, I have decided not to go to the mission for the time being. I shall telephone the missioner to-morrow, he will be cross for there’s such a lot to do as we get towards Christmas, but I must do what I feel right, and what I know dear Mr. Hilton would wish.”
Henry side-tracked talk of Simon.
“You goin’ to teach Julie to speak nice?”
Clara sat on the kitchen chair.
“If I can. I really think she should have professional help, but she seems against the idea, so I’ll start her anyway. I thought we would read out loud, a classic, you know.”
Henry did not know, and he thought pityingly of Julie. The poor little so-and-so hadn’t half let herself in for something. But he was glad to hear Clara was not going to the mission.
“That’ll be a bit of all right. What say I bring you your breakfast in bed just to celebrate like?”
Clara laughed at the idea.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t eat in bed unless I were ill. I’m only staying at home to help Julie, you mustn’t make a sluggard of me.” She looked fondly and humbly at Henry. “You are a dear man. You are so good with the children. I doubt if Julie would have spoken to me about her little trouble if she had not spoken to you first. What a pity you never married and had children of your own.”
It was years since Henry had thought of Gertie.
“I near did once. I wasn’t much more’n a nipper when I first set me pies on ’er. Smashin’ she looked. Red ’air she ’ad same as Andrew. Ginger I called ’er.”
“Why didn’t you marry her?”
It did not strike Henry how miraculously time could heal. He did not remember the demented boy who thought of killing himself.
“She died, sudden like, of the ’flu.”
“And you never thought of marrying anyone else?”
Faced with that question Henry’s subconscious brought to light that a red-headed forever young and lovely ghost made flesh and blood girls seem coarse. Embarrassed he found a laugh.
“Not me. I know when I’m well off. All I’ve got goes to me, see, if I’d married I might ’ave ten God-forbids, as well as a strife to keep. Besides, from what I seen, I’m well out of it. You ought to ’ear some of the jaw-me-deaths what fellers I know ’ave got spliced to. Now, there’s your bottle. I’m slippin’ out to see me friend.”
Nobby gave Henry a welcoming jerk of his head.
“’ow’s thin’s? Another mild and bitter, Rosie.”
While drinking Henry described the latest developments, except those that concerned Andrew. He was not spoiling the surprise he had for Nobby at Christmas. He told Nobby briefly about his talk with Julie and that they had succeeded in keeping Clara from her mission. Then, glancing round to see no one was within earshot, his mouth against Nobby’s ear, he told him about the visit to Botchley Lane.
“Mind you, I don’t know nothin’ nor never will. Perce keeps hisself to hisself, and quite right too, but if it’s anythin’ like a tip ’e give us once afore, it’s a cert.”
Nobby turned his mouth to Henry’s ear.
“Nothin’ ain’t a cert in dog racin’.”
Henry readjusted his position.
“If what I think is right this is. I don’t know mind, not for certain, but Perce ’as got a pal what ’as a rest place for grey’ounds, lovely so I ’ear, smashin’ grey’ounds goes
there.” Nobby moved excitedly. Henry laid a restraining hand on his arm. “’e can’t do it often a course, but just now and again like. You know what they say about Perce, time ’e’s fixed a dog nobody wouldn’t know it.”
Nobby nodded, he picked up his mug, swallowed some beer, smacked his lips, then drew Henry towards him.
“Is the dog from the rest place bein’ done up to look like one of Miss ’ilton’s?”
“Not as I know of. The idea’s to get there just afore the race. We leaves Miss Clara in the car, an’ you takes one of the kids an’ me to the other, an’ just afore the off we slip on all we can put our ’ands to, ’cludin’ my ’undred what the old B left me.”
Nobby clicked his tongue approvingly.
“An’ very nice too. There aren’t often more than four bookies at Botchley. If we all put our money on same time they won’t get a chance to tip each other off. Mind you, they may turn nasty after. That might be awkward with Miss ’ilton wantin’ to see ’ow nice grey’ound racin’ is.”
Henry lit a cigarette, with his elbow he moved his packet invitingly towards Nobby.
“Perce’ll see to that. ’e knows Botchley same as you know this pub. I reckon ’e’ll fix it so there isn’t no trial. A coupl’a dogs or that won’t turn up for a race, an’ the manager will put in one of Perce’s what runs there regular ’o everybody knows, or thinks they does.”
Nobby drew away from Henry and picked up his mug.
“Wonderful, isn’t it, the brains some ’as?” He raised his glass. “’ere’s to Perce.”
Henry nodded and drank.
“An’ to our afternoon at Botchley.” He raised his voice. “Same again, Rosie.”
* * * * *
George and Vera decided to keep their suspicions about Clara to themselves until they had seen Doris, and discovered what she knew and how she had found it out. Vera had said, “We don’t want to make a who-ha about it, it would make her feel important. We must think of some occasion when we would meet anyway.” The occasion they decided on was the christening of Priscilla Annette and at once Vera wrote to Freda.
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