“Run along, kids,” he said, not unkindly. “Run along, and don't get into any more trouble.”
From the point of view of settling the matter then and there, and returning to his contemplative beat, the constable could not have chosen more unfortunate words.
Esme, in some ways, was oddly adult, and had an uncomplicated appreciation of abstract justice. The blatant injustice of this remark, however kindly it might have been meant, struck him like a whiplash, and supreme indignation lent him courage and oratory.
“Trouble!” he squeaked, “I'm not in any trouble, it's them —they've just pinched our half-a-crown, and you've got to get it from them, or I'll ... I'll ...” he struggled for a moment, searching for the correct phrase. Then it came to him, from a school poem about the Cornishmen and Bishop Trelawney:
“... or I'll know the reason why!”—he concluded with a piping flourish.
Judith gazed with shining eyes at this demi-god, this serious-faced, narrow-shouldered stripling, straight from the pages of an Arthurian saga.
For years she had watched him strut, disposing of imaginary hordes at a blow, fulfilling the most impossible demands made upon him by shadowy commanders-in-chief, vaunting, swash-buckling and gasconading, but although she had genuinely admired his artistry, although her heart was warmed by his facility in changing suburban drabness to a riot of colour, she had never quite believed he was altogether real. Always, shamefully hidden in the back of her mind, ws the faint, nagging suspicion that one day this colourful balloon would burst and she would see him, as a man indeed, and a very desirable one, but an ordinary man nonetheless, and one who lived in one of the new semi-detached on the Wickham Estate, went to work on the 8.20, and pushed a lawnmower across the garden on Saturday afternoons.
Now, in the most dramatic maner, his extravagant boasts were vindicated, and her nagging doubts had been dragged into the open, and seen to be shabby and utterly unworthy. At the recollection of them she had hard work to prevent herself falling at his feet and begging his forgiveness, imploring a second chance to serve him in the humblest capacity, as cook, as drudge, as third shield-bearer removed.
The constable was not so impressed. He looked slightly startled and then irritated, not having the least idea how to proceed from this point onwards. There had been nothing in his textbooks, or in his probationary period talks with the sergeant, to prepare him for this sort of encounter. He could only bluff one party or the other, and the children had seemed the easier group to intimidate. Yet he was conscientious. He wanted to be fair and just. It was a great pity he did not in the least know how to begin.
Sensing his dilemma, Fred emerged from his mood of injured benevolence.
“You 'eard wot the orficer said,” he shouted at Esme; “'op it, before you gets run in, the pair of yer!”
“It's you that'll be run in, unless you come up with two-and-five!” said Esme, firmly.
He too had sensed the policeman's indecision, and was determined to make the most of it. He was surprised to note that his voice was down to its normal key again, and that his knees had stopped trembling.
This is ridiculous,” said the constable at length. “How do I know you gave him half-a-crown? I wasn't here, was I?”
“Quite right,” confirmed Fred, rather more affably.
In a way, Fred was beginning to enjoy himself. He felt quite safe, and it was always pleasant to embarrass a policeman.
At this juncture, however, Esme had an astonishing stroke of luck. There was really no satisfactory answer to the constable's claim. There was the bag, emptied, yet revealing no half-crown, and it is difficult to see how Esme would have been able to establish his claim then or later, and even more difficult to see how, with Judith looking on he could have abandoned his position with dignity.
But at that precise moment he saw Harold Godbeer, picking his way carefully through the main stream of people climbing the shingly hill, and the sight of Harold at this point in the dispute was like the glimpse of a bobbing lifeboat to a man floundering in a shark-infested sea. He drew himself up.
“Very well,” he said; “I'll fetch my lawyer!”
Fred exploded with laughter, and even the old crone's lips cracked in a sour smile.
“Lumme, he's a cool one, he is!” chortled Fred, smiting his distended stomach. “You oughter take 'im in charge, orficer, an' no mistake. ‘Fetch 'is lawyer!’ Lumme, I ain't 'eard nothin' like that ahtside o' the Ole Bailey!” And he clutched the edge of the tentflap for support, as Esme sped away down the slope.
The constable turned shamefacedly to Judith.
“You'd better go home, kid,” he told her; “this is no place for a little girl. Here ...” he fumbled in his trouser pocket for conscience money. “I'll buy you a toffee apple!”
“I don't want a toffee apple, thank you,” said Judith, confidently. “I want to see Esme and Mr. Godbeer get my two-and-fivepence out of him!”
It was not until Judith actually mentioned Mr. Godbeer's name that any of them suspected, for one second, that Esme's lawyer had substance. Within seconds, however, they had irrefutable proof of the fact, for Esme emerged from the crowd piloting Harold towards the stall. As they approached, Esme introduced him, with a certain proprietorial air.
“This is Mr. Godbeer. He's a lawyer. That's the woman, Uncle Harold, and that's the man she must have given it to!”
3
Harold Godbeer's presence at the fair was an accident. Ordinarily, he never attended such functions, but today, Bank Holiday, he had a luncheon appointment with Eunice, and had been sent out with Eunice's dachshund “Scandal” in order to wile away the hour or two it took Eunice to dress for an outing. His steps had led him in the direction of the hills, and his thoughts had been far away when his coat was seized by Esme on the main path.
Esme, sensing triumph, had not made the same mistake as he made when approaching the constable. He told his tale simply and clearly, and Mr. Godbeer's legal mind absorbed the details like a sponge.
In so doing, he saw far beyond the legal aspect. The boy was obviously in trouble, and asking for help. What enormous advantages might accrue for him—Harold—if he emerged as the champion of law and order, as the recoverer of stolen goods, as the superior of a uniformed constable!
Harold did not shrink from an engagement with a pair of hucksters. He had an even more deep-rooted faith in the law than Esme and a good deal more experience in the art of bluff. He gave Esme “Scandal” to hold, and crunched purposefully over the pebbles towards the booth. He went willingly, with a song in his heart.
“Now listen here—” began Fred, again seeking the initiative.
Harold held up his hand, his pale lips forming a thin, remorseless line. He had seen too many Freds in too many witness-boxes, to be impressed by their hectoring tone, in or out of a magistrates' court. He addressed himself to the constable, now sweating a little under his tight collar.
“This young man is a friend of mine, Constable. My name is Godbeer, and I happen to be managing clerk of Stillman and Vickers, Solicitors, St. Paul's Churchyard. It must be quite obvious to you what has occurred. Hadn't you better order these people to return the money at once?”
The constable spread his hands. “They've emptied their bag ... how can anyone swear to a particular coin? It doesn't make sense, Mr.—Mr.—”
“Godbeer,” said Harold testily. He disliked uniformed officials who were unable to make instantaneous mental note of one's name, but he saw, nevertheless, the grave diffiiculties in the constable's path, and his alert brain at once cast about for a workable alternative.
He found one, almost immediately.
“That's true enough,” he admitted; “but then, one knows the sort of people involved, doesn't one? That being so, one has to play them at their own game, which is precisely what I propose to do. Make an apron of your skirt, Judith!”
Instinctively, and without quite knowing why, Judith seized the hem of her print frock, and held it taut. Into it Ha
rold began to scoop bag after bag of confetti, ignoring the sputtered protests of Fred, and smartly slapping at the claw-like hand of the old woman, as she reached out to check him.
Into Esme's eyes came a look of undisguised admiration. He would never have thought out that one, not in a million years! Now it was his turn to enjoy himself, and the expression on Fred's face, and the fish-like gape of the constable, were sheer heaven. Gleefully, he began helping Mr. Godbeer to scoop. Bag after bag, two dozen in all, were swept into Judith's skirt.
“It's thieving! Lumme, stop him!” roared Fred, at last.
“Give the constable particulars, and prosecute,” said Harold, coolly, as Judith, with sagging skirt, backed away from the stall. “I, and my ... er ... my client, would be happy to contest the case in any court you care to name, sir!”
He turned to the constable. “You may even arrest us all, on the spot, if you wish. We shall offer no resistance. Would you prefer that, or shall we settle it this way, without further trouble and expense?”
With a slight jerk the constable came to himself.
“You'd better leave it at that,” he told Fred, and, turning on his heel, crossed rapidly to the path and quickly lost himself in the crowd.
With a pleasant nod towards the astonished vendors, Harold placed a protective hand on the shoulder of each child, and directed their steps towards the main road.
“And now,” he said, “we had better dispose of the evidence as rapidly as possible. Half-a-crown, I think you said,” and he plunged his hand into his pocket, and presented Esme with a coin of that value.
Esme was overwhelmed.
“Well, thanks ... thanks ... Mr.... Uncle Harold.... That was marvellous, just marvellous....”
“Ha, ha,” piped Harold, with excusable pride, “you see I know these people, and that man in particular. Now why don't you and Judith play nearer the house? I wouldn't come up, here if I were you. Or, better still, why don't we all go for a picnic to Manor Woods? Your mother will be ready now, and we could have fun, the four of us!”
And that was just what they did, the four of them picknick-ing in Manor Woods, where Judith poured out the story of the confetti battle to a rather startled Eunice, and Harold sat beaming in a glow of triumph that he was quite ready to share with Esme, for presently he said, removing his short briar from his mouth:
“Esme was quite right to stand up to them, and even more sensible to fetch me!”
That night, Esme lay awake thinking a long time and, as a result of his musings, sought out his mother alone the following morning, when she was brushing her long, fair tresses at the dressing-table mirror.
“Mother,” he said quietly, “why don't you marry Uncle Harold and be done with it?”
Eunice was so surprised that she gave a litltle cry, and let fall the silver-backed hair-brush.
“Esme, you don't mean it?” she exclaimed seizing his hands, and pulling him towards her.
Esme held himself stiffly. He resented these spontaneous embraces.
“Well, why not?” he demanded. “He's mad on you, anyone can see that, and I think he's a proper sport, and so does Judith!”
“Oh, Esme, darling? was all Eunice could reply for the moment.
4
It was very decorous little wedding at Shirley Church, with Eunice in blue organdie, a white cloche hat, a spray of lilies of the valley, and Judith as a bridesmaid, in a Kate Greena-way gown.
There was no real reception, but later in the day, Eunice having changed into a going-away costume, and reduced the groom to a state of breathless ecstasy by kissing him lightly under the right ear, the couple left for a week's honeymoon at Torquay, taking Esme along with them, because it was holiday time, and they did not care to ask Mrs. Sturge, the daily, to sleep at Number Twenty-Two for the week.
They stayed at a large hotel, and Esme, who had never previously entered a hotel, was impressed by the opulence of the setting, particularly the bemedalled commissionaire, who showed a deferential interest in the boy when he learned the lad's father had been an officer, killed on the Marne.
This piece of information came in useful in the staff-room, where a chambermaid had admitted herself somewhat puzzled by the fact that the little boy in Number Twenty-Seven must be all of thirteen, yet continued to declare, with a leer altogether alarming in one so young, that “his people were having their honeymoon”!
CHAPTER XII
Jim Burns A 'Bus
1
THE General Strike of 1926 was a great disappointment to Jim Carver, for the same reason that it disappointed the Kremlin.
Although by no means a violent man, Jim's political education had encouraged him to expect sensational constitutional changes to emerge from an upheaval of this magnitude. When none did, when the Old Gang emerged from it as smug and secure as ever, Jim's general conception of the British political scene underwent a sharp change. From May 1926 onwards, he ceased to regard his political work as an improving hobby, and in the years that led up to the Depression and beyond, his activities in this direction became an obsession. Where householders, opening their doors to receive one of his free pamphlets, had once encountered a social busybody, they now found themselves looking into the eyes of a fanatic.
The General Strike did not seriously involve the people of the Avenue as a community. Few industrial workers lived in the crescent. Some half-dozen, like Mr. Baskerville, of Number Eighty-Four, took a few days' holiday, and marched about the Lower Road, hoping to witness something exciting. They had a feeling that a stoppage of this size should provide some visual evidence of a real revolution. They too went home disappointed. No amount of fiery talk on the part of Jim Carver and his associates could induce the Cleggs, the Friths, the Frasers, or even the Baskervilles, to look upon the event as anything more than a welcome break in the monotony of their everyday lives.
One or two of the Avenue wives, recalling the uninhibited scenes of Armistice Day, went further afield in search of spectacle, but these would-be sensationalists were in a small minority. The Avenue was only twelve miles from London, and almost everyone residing there who had work in the City got to it by one means or another, even if they did little on arrival but gossip, and gaze out of office windows. Some of them used bicycles, a few walked, and the rest gathered in little knots at the junction of Shirley Rise and the Lower Road, to be picked up and transported by volunteer motorists, or “Specials” driving lorries.
There was, among all these people, a curious detachment in their approach to the emergency. Throughout the nine days' wonder they displayed small sense of partisanship, one way or the other. In essence they were pro-Government, but there was no rancour in the suburb towards the strikers. The householders sympathised with the miners, whose case had been given plenty of advance publicity, but whose average wages were recognised as inadequate, having regard to their working conditions. Jim Carver, out stumporating night after night, despaired of persuading them to make common cause with the miners: the nearest coalfields were hundreds of miles from the Avenue, and the injustices of the men, who “talked funny”, and worked there, were as remote as those of Chinese coolies, and Tokio rickshaw-runners.
There was, it seemed to Jim, no evidence of true political awareness in the suburb, no true recognition of the class struggle, as set down in his pamphlets and statistical surveys. One could quote facts and figures to these people until one was blue in the face. They listened, occasionally asked in irrelevant question, occasionally made a weak joke at the speaker's expense, but hardly any of them saw beyond their own, pitifully limited, horizons of thought. They were blind to the danger of the Capitalist Conspirators, who were standing by with fetters, waiting for a chance to reshackle them to the Juggernaut of Victorian class-exploitation.
Meantime, those few who did see, those like himself who devoted the whole of their free time to preaching the gospel, were methodically victimised, even as the miners were being victimised.
It was not long before Jim himse
lf felt the weight of this victimisation. Less than a month before the outbreak of the General Strike he found himself out of a job, and branded as an agitator, without even the chilly consolation of martyrdom.
Jim Carver's political activities, throughout the six years he had worked as vanman for the removal firm of Burtol and Twyfords, were well known to the directors, but had so far resulted in no recrimination on their part. This was mainly because old Hubert Twyford, the dominant figure of the firm, had recognised in Jim a sound, conscientious workman, willing to give a fair day's toil for a limited day's pay, notwithstanding his well-known, radical sympathies.
Hubert Twyford was an old-time Liberal and Free-Trader, whose political thought had been cast in the mould of men like Lloyd George and Sir Edward Grey. Old Man Twyford took a keen interest in his employees. He knew every one of them by name, and although he had long regarded Carver as a mild crank, who sought in Socialism reforms that which could have been achieved by the Liberal Party, he shared Carver's open contempt for the Tories, past and present, and had once gone so far as to tell him as much when he had attended a meeting at which Jim was speaking in support of a Socialist candidate.
Shortly before the strike, however, Hubert Twyford died, and the direction of the firm passed to his only son, Gilbert, who was detested among the yardmen and clerks as a pompous snob, with a hundred half-baked notions of building Burtol and Twyford's—a compact business employing less than fifty men—into a dangerous rival to Carter Paterson's and Pickford's.
Gilbert took over his father's direction in March. By the end of April a dozen of the older men had been sacked, and Jim was one of the first to go.
His dismissal was made known to him at a brief, unpleasant interview.
“I'm making changes,” Gilbert Twyford had told him. “From now on, this firm is going to be run on twentieth-century lines. We can forget all about the horse-vans, can't we?”
As Burtol and Twyford's had been using motor-lorries since 1913, this remark struck Jim as particularly fatuous, and when, at the close of his pep talk, young Twyford asked for suggestions, Jim was rash enough, and irritated enough, to make a pointed reference to the rates of subsistence pay issued to teams away from home overnight.
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