‘Don’t tell your teacher tomorrow that you were out late, either,’ Stella added.
They didn’t have to join the lengthening queue at the Golden Domes but were whisked away by a conspiratorial usherette and shown straight to their seats.
‘This is like a palace,’ Josefina said to her mother, awed by her surroundings.
‘Well, they call these places picture palaces! You two sit between us, eh?’
The lights dimmed; the music began, as a late-comer took the seat next to Lilli. She was aware that it was a man, but she didn’t look at him, not wishing to get into conversation.
The Little Tramp character and his partner, played by Mack Swain, were portrayed in the Klondike territory of Alaska, as would-be prospectors hoping to find rich deposits of gold in the gravel of the tributaries of the Yukon river. The unworldly tramp harboured a secret passion for a dance-hall hostess in the rough-and-ready Gold Rush town. There were thrilling scenes of bitter snow blizzards in the wilds, where, sheltering in a ramshackle hut, the starving hero boiled up an old boot and sat down to eat it with exquisite manners.
‘Mummy, I think the boot must be made of liquorice!’ Josefina whispered.
‘Don’t spoil the illusion,’ Stella murmured back, as the tramp finished off the bootlaces.
There was another culinary high-spot, the dance of the bread rolls, manipulated on a pair of forks. Chaplin was a supreme master of the mummers’ art.
The stapstick scenes made them laugh until their sides ached, they gasped over the frenzied fight between the tramp and his partner, who was maddened by hunger, when they feared for their hero; the sad moments had them wiping their eyes.
When the credits rolled, the lights went up and there was a concerted groan from the audience; they hadn’t wanted the story to end.
‘I’ll get the ices!’ Stella suggested, being nearest the aisle. The little girls insisted on following her. There was already a long line of people waiting.
It was then that Lilli realized who had been sitting next to her throughout the film.
‘Good evening, Mrs Bower. Do you agree this is Chaplin’s best film so far?’
Lilli didn’t deign to answer his question. She was angry, and afraid. ‘Mr Solon, you must stop following me. If you don’t, I will have to inform the police.’
‘Believe me, I mean you no harm.’
‘Someone is employing you, is that it, to– to—’
‘Watch out for you. I have your best interests at heart.’
‘Tell me who it is! Oh, I can guess, but I want to know for sure.’
‘It is not for me to say. But think of me as your friend.’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘It would be better for you, if you did. You will need my support, if—’ He paused. ‘The ice-cream bearers are returning. I shall leave now, before the next film. Will you meet me in the tea-shop tomorrow, after you finish work? I will explain more then, if I can.’
Stella passed along the little tub of vanilla ice cream, with its wooden spoon.
‘Who was that, Lilli?’ she asked curiously.
‘Somebody I know slightly. He asked my opinion of the film, that’s all.’
*
Russ’s first reaction on seeing Rose Marie with his mother and sister was disconcerting.
‘What have you done to your hair? It doesn’t suit you!’ he exclaimed. ‘And your lips!’
‘Oh.’ Rose Marie put her hand up to cover her mouth. ‘I meant to wipe it all off—’
‘Apologize to Rose Marie, Russ,’ his mother told him. She turned to 01Rose Marie. ‘Well, I can put his mind at rest: no man, apart from that intrusive, ancient newspaper photographer, was present to see you make your debut as a mannequin at the Belling Winter Collection.’
‘Your picture is going to be in the papers?’ Russ sounded even more agitated.
‘Probably,’ Rose Marie flashed back, disappointed at his reaction, especially in front of his family. They had met him outside the bookshop, in Charing Cross Road, and walked through a maze of streets where eating establishments abounded.
‘I’m sorry,’ Russ said belatedly. ‘I was rude. I had no reason to be. Look, let’s go in the restaurant now, I booked the table earlier. Mr Turbot-Watts recommended this place.’
‘It looks rather bohemian.’ Mrs Short didn’t sound as if she really minded that.
‘Well, we are in Soho, Mother. My boss likes French cuisine, but we could have had Greek, Italian or Spanish, I suppose. Very cosmopolitan round here, as you can see.’
There were low ceilings, pitted beams downstairs and a sweep of stairs to a gallery, with tables for two, four or six, where their places were reserved.
‘Shall we go to the cloakroom, Sadie, to tidy up?’ Mrs Short suggested. ‘I imagine that Rose Marie and Russ would appreciate ten minutes to themselves, eh? We’ll order on our return.’
Rose Marie studied the menu. She was still feeling rather ruffled at Russ’s reaction to her appearance earlier.
He reached out for her hand. ‘Come on, you’re not cross with me, are you? I wasn’t expecting to see you, but, of course, I’m glad to be with you, and now I can tell you my plan for the coming weekend: on Saturday, I’m driving to Norfolk for another lot of books, and Mr Turbot-Watts suggests I take you with me, and that we put up in a bed and breakfast somewhere, and enjoy the morning in the country on Sunday, before we come back. Do you think Florence would agree?’
‘Well, Florence is more interested in her own affairs at the moment, it seems,’ Rose Marie said. That still smarted with her. ‘Yes, I’d love to come.’
‘The boss is paying for our accommodation, too! Look, here they come? I haven’t told Mother yet, so—’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t say a thing!’
‘My treat,’ Sadie said, taking her seat. ‘Not necessary to hold back! I’m starting with French onion soup, a favourite of mine.’
‘Lilli – my French friend – made that for me once. She served it with little toast cubes and grated Parmesan on top. I’ll have it too,’ Rose Marie decided.
Russ smiled at her. ‘And me. See, we’re in accord again!’
*
Florence and Manny carried their coffee cups into the sitting-room. This time, Manny was bold enough to sit close to her on the settee.
‘I shan’t expect you to do this every evening after we’re married,’ Florence told him. ‘You must still see your friends at the pub.’
‘I only started that because I was lonely,’ he admitted.
‘Ah, but I don’t want the rumour going round that poor Manny is being henpecked.’
‘To be honest, Florence, it’ll take me some time, I reckon, not to think of you as the boss.’
‘I told you I don’t want all that responsibility any more: equal partners, that’s it. But can I make a suggestion?’
He nodded. ‘You know you can. We’re not married yet!’
‘That’s what I want to discuss with you. Where to get married.’
‘Go on.’
‘How about St Martin’s?’
‘I. . .–I’m not sure if that’s possible. I’m a lapsed Catholic you see.’
‘Look, I’m not going to be a blushing bride in a wedding gown – a nice costume for me, and a smart suit for you, all right? The pie shop can pay!’
‘It takes time to fix up, doesn’t it?’
‘Quicker at the Register Office. It’s daft, but I don’t even know your first name, or where you were born – just that you answer to Manny because your surname is Manning.’
‘Patrick Joseph; I was born in what’s now the Republic of Ireland. My mother was English; my father died young, then she brought me over here.’
‘She’s gone too, is that right?’ Florence asked gently.
‘Before the war. From asthma. She suffered terrible with that. I don’t have any other family, Florence.’
‘Well, you soon will have. And when they fly the coop, we’ll have each oth
er.’
‘I like the sound of that . . .’
‘That’s good,’ Florence said.
TEN
LILLI felt obliged to tell Stella she would be home later than usual, though hopefully before the children returned from school.
‘Be careful,’ Stella cautioned. ‘But I suppose it’s something you’re meeting in a public place. I’d be really worried if this man had suggested you calling where he lives.’
‘So would I! I will tell him he must stop shadowing me.’
At two o’clock precisely, Lilli arrived at the tea room. The entrance was deserted; she peered through the window trying to glimpse the interior, above the gingham half-curtain.
‘Good afternoon.’ He approached so quietly, she was startled. ‘Shall we go in?’
The late-lunchers were making ready to leave. A waitress asked them to wait a moment while she swept the crumbs from a table and removed the crockery. They sat down.
‘Just tea,’ Lilli said to the waitress. She was hungry, but she felt too tense to accept her companion’s polite offer of something to eat. ‘Now,’ she addressed him. ‘Would you please tell me what all this is about. Does this concern my husband?’
‘Your husband,’ he repeated. ‘I do not receive my instructions from him. However, I was asked to question him regarding your disappearance. Mr Bower was angry; he wants you to return his daughter, but he indicated that he would not take you back.’
‘I would not go, and I will not part with Yvette.’ Lilli poured tea from the silver pot. She willed her hands not to shake.
‘Can you not guess who the, ah, interested party might be?’
‘If it isn’t my husband, I must presume my mother. Yet we have not communicated since I left France. She made it clear she had disowned me, though there was little to come! My uncle inherited the estate from my father after he died in the fighting. He, his wife and son moved in with my mother after the war.’
‘Did she turn against you because you married a man not of her choice?’
‘Partly. I don’t know why I should tell you this, but I will. She was disappointed in me; I was already pregnant by this man who, as you say, was not of her choice.’
‘You have been frank with me; now I shall tell you something. I have not had dealings with your mother. I was approached by a certain other person because I am discreet. I was not told by whom this agent was commissioned. If I enquire too closely, I can expect to be discharged from my duties. I have learned enough about you to ask myself if this surveillance is justified – I believe not. I think you should consider another move.’
‘But we have settled here – we have good friends. I have my job . . .’
‘My dear Mrs Bower, I have your safety very much in mind.’ He drained his cup. ‘Well, I have given you my warning. You must be vigilant at all times. I shall continue to be concerned for your welfare, I assure you. If you need me, here is my card.’ Mr Solon rose. ‘Are you ready to leave? Then I will settle the bill.’
It was a business card. It read, PHILIPPE SOLON. PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. The address was in Piccadilly. Lilli tucked it into the back of her purse.
*
Rose Marie and Russ made an early start, before anyone else in No. 1 Paradise Buildings was stirring. Just after five on Saturday morning, she crept downstairs and opened the front door to see the Trojan Horse, as she had nicknamed the book van, already parked outside.
‘Oh, it’s beginning to rain,’ she exclaimed, as she handed her overnight bag to Russ to put in the back of the motor. She was glad she had donned her mackintosh because the morning was chilly. The weather didn’t appear too promising for a weekend in the country, but then it was nearing the end of September, she thought, stifling a yawn.
‘We couldn’t get away without someone seeing us,’ Russ said cheerfully, as the milk cart came clanking along. ‘The horse won’t tell tales, but maybe it looks as if we are eloping!’
‘Do you wish we were?’ Rose Marie asked jokingly, as they drove off.
‘What do you think? I bet you haven’t had any breakfast.’
‘Can you hear my tummy grumbling?’
‘Well, my mother wouldn’t allow me out of the house without sustenance. She also packed us some sandwiches and a Thermos flask for along the way.’
‘That was kind of her. Normally, I’m sure Florence would have done the same.’
‘She didn’t raise any objection to our weekend away, did she?’
‘Not really. She said she trusted you.’
‘Oh dear,’ he grinned. ‘Still, even my sister came up with some advice!’
‘They both mean well!’
Later, in the broad light of day, they stopped in a leafy lane in Essex and wound the windows down to breathe in the fresh country air after the rain. They ate their egg sandwiches and drank weak tea from beakers.
‘Where exactly are we going?’ Rose Marie asked.
‘To a windswept village near the coast; see, I’ve marked it on the map. Not that grease spot from my sandwich –the pencil circle. Mr Turbot-Watts’s uncle collects and sells books too, it must run in the family. Chapel House Books, that’s the place we have to find. His lease has run out, and he has to dispose of his stock. T-W warns we’ll find him eccentric, but he’s a nice old boy.’
‘More eccentric than your boss, I wonder?’
‘Well, it’ll be some hours yet before we find out. Ready to move off?’
She nodded. ‘I think I’ll catch up on my beauty sleep.’ She leaned back in her seat.
He kissed her cheek. ‘Sweet dreams, Rose Marie. Make sure they include me . . .’
*
It was raining again and windy too, when they finally parked the motor by a deserted village green, overlooked by several dwellings; the local hostelry, where they were to stay overnight; a general store, with the sign indicating it was shut; and a dilapidated building with double doors and arched windows, obviously the former primitive chapel. Above the entrance, in flaking white paint, was the legend BOOKS. Over the road was the chapel’s red-brick replacement, with inscribed foundation stones, laid by local worthies some fifty years ago.
Rose Marie imagined that this solid building was looking in dismay at its predecessor.
‘The bookshop appears to be closed,’ she remarked to Russ.
‘We’re expected, though. Oh, look, the doors are opening.’
A man emerged, clutching an armful of books. Behind him loomed a tall figure.
‘That must be him! Quick, Rose Marie, before he disappears!’
‘I was expecting you earlier than this,’ Mr Turbot-Watts senior greeted them.
‘We had to make a stop or two; it was a long drive,’ Russ told him.
‘Well, come in, come in. The reason I hoped you’d get here by lunchtime will now be obvious to you; the electricity has been disconnected. I’ll light the paraffin lamp. Sit down, if you can find a space, young lady. I have a spirit stove, so I can at least make you a cup of tea, but I presume you have ordered your evening meal at the White Hart. The books for my nephew are already boxed, but goodness knows what will happen to the rest.’
As the lamp flared and dispelled the gloom immediately around them, Rose Marie saw that the old man was attired in pyjamas, slippers with flapping soles, and an ancient dressing gown. There was a definite resemblance to Mr Elmo Turbot-Watts, particularly the shiny bald pate and whiskers, though in this case his beard was unkempt. Books were all over the place, in leaning piles, and there was a musty smell. A steep staircase led to a gallery.
‘I sleep up in the Gods, as it were,’ the old man said, shaking a milk bottle hopefully. ‘Solid – goes off quickly in thundery weather . . . you must excuse my attire: my clothes are all damp, due to that damn leaking roof.’
‘Where will you go?’ Rose Marie asked him, worried about his welfare.
‘I shall be all right, my dear. I have, um, a lady friend – completely batty of course, must be to fancy me
, but good-hearted. I can rest my bones in her attic with the spiders and mice, but she’ll feed me in return for, um, what she calls favours.’
Rose Marie blushed. She hoped he meant chopping firewood or other chores.
‘I shall go there tonight, don’t worry. Close the doors on this lot. I sorted out the best books for Elmo. How is my nephew?’
‘He’s well.’ Russ felt in his pocket and brought out a fat envelope. ‘He sent this for you,’ he said awkwardly. It was obvious this was a packet of banknotes.
‘He didn’t need to do that. He’s a good boy. Mind, I can do with it, bills to pay and I haven’t a bean. Oh, I lie. The chap you saw gave me a shilling for a bundle of books.’ He poured water in a teapot. The brown liquid crawled out slowly through a blocked spout into a stained tin mug. ‘We’ll have to share this, I’m afraid. I have a solitary sugar lump.’
‘No, please, you have it. May I begin loading the boxes? Then we’ll leave you in peace. Unless we can help you with your moving out?’ Russ asked.
‘My dear young man, I intend to just abandon the rest, as I said. It’s the only way.’
*
Later, Rose Marie and Russ were glad to sit by the fire in the visitors’ room and warm up before they sat down to a satisfying meal cooked by the publican’s wife.
‘We should have asked the poor old uncle to join us,’ Rose Marie worried.
‘Mr Turbot-Watts did warn me how things would be.’
‘You should have told me!’
‘I wanted you to think of it as a romantic weekend.’
‘Hardly that,’ she said, pouring gravy over her fillet of steak and rings of onion.
‘The night is still young,’ he said audaciously. ‘Anything could happen . . .’
Their rooms were under the sloping eaves, with a connecting door.
‘Where’s the key?’ Rose Marie asked their hostess.
‘Key, dear? First time I’ve been asked for that! But there is a bolt, see?’ She left them to find out that it was too stiff to shift into place.
‘Call out if you need me,’ Russ said, before he kissed her goodnight. ‘Sleep well.’
Hot Pies on the Tram Car Page 9