by M C Beaton
Harry studied Cyril while the interview was going on. He could imagine such as Cyril being capable of murder. He was an extremely vain fop from the top of his bear-greased hair to his tiny patent leather boots. He had a smooth round barbered face, small eyes and a small mean mouth.
“Did she talk about any friends, any acquaintances?”
“No; may I go now?”
“I suggest you remain in London for the time being. If you have urgent business in the country, you must report to me.”
“That’s it!” said Cyril furiously. “I’m off. The Prime Minister shall hear of your treatment and no, I am not going back to The Club in your rotten motor car. I shall take a hack.”
Rose awoke late the next day. There was no sign of Daisy. She washed and dressed and went through to the living-room.
“Where is Daisy?” asked Rose.
“She very kindly took the children to school and then said she would go for a walk. I’ll make you some breakfast although they’ll all soon be back for dinner.”
Rose was feeling uneasy and ashamed of her remark about peasants. What if they had heard her?
Sally bent over her cooking pots. “It’s Plomley Fair next week and the girls are crying out for new dresses, but I told them there isn’t the money to buy new frocks every year.”
Rose thought about all her gowns lying in suitcases in the stables. “I have a great deal of clothes I will not need while I am here,” she said. “I will go out to the stables and select some items which can be made over for the girls.”
Sally stared in amazement at the young lady she had thought was a chilly aristocrat. Rose suddenly smiled. “If I were to do something, the time would pass more quickly. That way it would please your little girls and it would please me.”
“Well, in that case…”
“I’ll go now,” said Rose.
♦
Daisy collected the children from school. She had already made a slingshot for Alfred out of a small forked branch and one of her garters and had bought sweets for the rest at the local village shop. “You’re not to eat them, mind,” she cautioned, “until after you’ve had your dinner.”
She was still furious with Rose for being so high and mighty. Daisy was enjoying all this freedom of being away from the rigid class system of London’s top ten thousand.
When they all crowded into the living-room, an amazing sight met their eyes. On the horsehair sofa were spread out gowns in fine muslins, silks and satins.
“Ah, Daisy,” said Rose, “I was just saying to Sally that we could make over some of my gowns to provide the girls with new dresses for the fair.”
The girls screamed with delight. “Silence,” roared their father. “Say thank you to Miss Rose and sit down at the table.”
“Do we have to wear our pinafores over them?” asked Geraldine.
“Of course,” said her mother. “Girls of your age without pinafores? Won’t do.”
Bert said grace. The meal was faggots in a rich sauce, followed by rhubarb tart.
“We’re going to be right fat by the time we leave here,” said Daisy and everyone laughed.
Rose ate steadily, enjoying the food. The rich food she was used to had never spurred her appetite the way Sally’s simple cooking did.
When Daisy went off to take the children back to school, Sally said, “I’ve a sewing-machine in the parlour.”
The parlour was kept for high days and holidays. The sewing-machine was set up at a table by the window. The fireplace was stuffed with newspaper and the room was cold. A newer version of the horsehair sofa in the living-room dominated the parlour, along with two horsehair armchairs covered in slippery black leather. On the mantelpiece was a clock stuck forever at ten past twelve and on an occasional table sat a stuffed owl in a glass case. Against the wall opposite the window was an upright piano.
Sally saw her looking at it. “It’s never played. Bert saved old Mrs. Carey’s life once and she left him that in her will.”
“I’m sure Daisy and myself can give your children lessons if you would like,” said Rose.
Under her hard-looking exterior, Sally was actually shy and had been very nervous of housing this aristocrat and her companion. For the first time since they arrived, she began to feel at ease. “That would be lovely. I’ve got patterns there for all the girls. They had dresses made from them last year, but they’ve all grown a bit since then.”
“I’ll measure them all when they get home from school.”
“Your beautiful gowns,” said Sally awkwardly. “Won’t you need ’em for yourself when you go back to Lunnon?”
“I can have more made,” said Rose, giving Sally a glimpse of what is what like never to have to worry about money.
Mathew Jarvis was sending a very generous sum of money each week for Rose’s and Daisy’s upkeep. The thrifty Bert put it all in a savings account for his children’s futures, keeping some back so that Sally could provide ample meals.
That evening, while Rose measured the girls and discussed which material they would like best, Daisy sat down at the piano and began to sing.
After finishing his beat, Bert was walking home with Dr. Linley, who lived farther along the road. The doctor stopped and said, “Listen!”
From the policeman’s cottage came the sound of two voices. Rose had joined Daisy at the piano.
“You are my honeysuckle, I am the bee,
I’d like to sip the honey sweet
From those red lips, you see.
I love you dearly, dearly, and I
Want you to love me –
You are my honey, honeysuckle,
I am the bee.”
“It’s those girls, those distant relatives of ours,” said Bert. “Seem to be settling in.”
“Shh!” said the doctor.
Rose had started to sing “Just a Song at Twilight.” Other villagers came to join them. The evening air was soft with a hint of summer to come.
Then a smart landau came along and stopped. “What’s going on?” cried an authoritative voice.
“Lady Blenkinsop,” muttered Bert gloomily. “We’re listening to one of my relatives singing,” he said aloud.
Lady Blenkinsop listened as well. “Very good,” she said at last. “They will sing for me. Fetch them out.”
What would Kerridge say to this development? wondered Bert. But Lady Blenkinsop, for all her airs and grand house, was only the widow of an ironmaster who had bought his title. And she never went to London.
The crowd waited until Rose and Daisy came out. There was a polite spattering of applause.
“Come here!” barked Lady Blenkinsop.
By the light of the carriage lamps, Rose saw a very small, sour-looking woman dressed in widow’s weeds.
Daisy suddenly wished Rose would look, well, more messy. Even in a plain white blouse and skirt, Rose looked impeccable and she had dressed her hair fashionably.
Daisy curtsied but Rose held herself ramrod-stiff and demanded in glacial tones, “Yes?”
“Yes, what, my girl? I have a title.”
“What do you want?” asked Rose.
“I want you and the other one to come and sing for me tomorrow afternoon.”
“I am afraid we are otherwise engaged,” said Rose. “Good evening to you. Come, Daisy.”
Rose turned on her heel and strode back into the house.
“That uppity little minx needs a taste of the birch,” fumed Lady Blenkinsop. “Drive on.”
Two days later, Bert was summoned by the police commissioner in York. Lady Blenkinsop had accused him of insolence.
“I will go with you,” said Rose.
“You’ll make matters worse,” groaned Bert.
Sally returned after seeing Bert off at the station. “Do not worry,” said Rose. “If your husband is dismissed, then my father will support him.”
The policeman’s wife whipped round. “And you think that’ll solve the problem, lass? My Bert’s proud of his job. You’v
e brought nothing but trouble.”
♦
“We must do something,” whispered Daisy. “If only we could phone the captain.”
“I could do that,” said Rose. “I know we were told not to phone or write but I could pretend to be his cousin and talk in a sort of code. We must move quickly. We can’t use the telephone in the police station or the girl in the exchange might tell Bert. I know, we’ll get to Plomley. I’ll just tell Sally we’re going out for a walk. I do find all this use of first names rather peculiar, but Bert said it makes us sound more like family.”
They hitched a lift to Plomley on a farm cart.
It was an old-fashioned wooden telephone kiosk in Plomley, not one of the new boxes.
Rose got through to the operator and gave her Harry’s number, shovelled the required pennies into the slot and waited.
Let him be there, she silently prayed. Please let him be there.
Ailsa Bridge answered the phone. Rose asked to speak to the captain. “Who is calling?” asked Ailsa.
Rose thought quickly. “His cousin, Miss Shalott.”
Harry came on the line. “This is your cousin, Miss Shalott,” said Rose quickly. “Our uncle Bert is in trouble again, the old rip. The police commissioner in York has summoned him this morning. He must have been drunk and breaking windows again. Added to that, a certain Lady Blenkinsop has put in a complaint against poor old Uncle because she says I was rude to her and all because she wanted me to sing at her house, just like a common chorus girl. Too, too sickening. Do help Uncle Bert, please.”
“Where are you telephoning from?”
“Such a quaint little wooden kiosk. You know Mama will not let me use the telephone and she says that Uncle Bert should be left to his own devices.”
“I’ll deal with it right away. Are you well?”
“Oh, yes, very well. Thank you.”
Rose replaced the receiver. “Let’s hope he gets to the commissioner in York in time, Daisy.”
Bert stared miserably at his shiny regulation boots as he sat outside the commissioner’s office. He would do anything to avoid losing his job. But Kerridge had sworn him to secrecy.
At last a police officer emerged from the commissioner’s office and said, “Go in now.”
Bert, with his helmet tucked underneath his arm, went in.
The commissioner, Sir Henry Taylor, was a bluff, red-faced man. “Sit down, Shufflebottom,” he said. “You must be thirsty after your journey. Tea?”
Bert blinked in surprise, too startled to speak.
“I know, you’d probably like a beer. Tretty,” he said to the attendant police officer, “fetch Mr. Shufflebottom a beer and bring me one as well. Now, there’s been this complaint from Lady Blenkinsop.”
“I – I’m right sorry,” stuttered Bert. “You see, sir, what happened – ”
“Never mind. That old witch is always complaining about something. Ah, beer, just the thing. Drink up.”
“Your health, sir.” Bert raised the tankard with a shaking hand.
“I’ve been looking at your record. Very fine. No scandals. Everything dealt with quietly and decently. Then you rescued that family last year in Plomley at the fair when their carriage horse bolted. The reason I called you in was to tell you that we think the time has come to give you a little rise in salary as a token of our appreciation.”
“Oh, sir, thank you, sir. What about Lady Blenkinsop?”
“The lord lieutenant is calling on her. You will not be troubled by her.”
Lady Blenkinsop was initially delighted when the lord lieutenant, Sir Percy Twisletone, called on her. She longed to mingle with the aristocracy, but they mostly shunned her.
“I will get right to the point,” said Sir Percy. “You have put in a complaint against the village policeman because of his relative’s behaviour.”
“Of course! Cheeky minx. I honoured her with an invitation to sing for me and she refused!”
“Miss Rose comes from a very distant aristocratic branch of the family, fallen on hard times.”
“I find it hard to believe that Shufflebottom has any aristocratic connections.”
“They may have been, shall we say, on the wrong side of the blanket, but royalty – excuse me, I should not have said that – certain sins must be forgiven.”
Lady Blenkinsop goggled at him. “Do you mean…?”
“I said nothing,” said Sir Percy sternly. “I only came to warn you to be careful whom you insult in future. The news can travel upwards to amazingly high circles.”
“Oh, dear,” babbled Lady Blenkinsop. “I shall apologize.”
“No, you will not say anything of this matter and you will not go near the policeman again. We have eyes and ears everywhere and if you tell anyone about this, I shall find out.”
♦
Sally collected the children from school herself. She could hardly bear to speak to either Rose or Daisy. She drove the children to Plomley Station in the pony and trap. They all held hands as they saw the train rounding the curve. Sally stood holding baby Frankie in her arms. We’ll get through this together, she thought.
She stared in amazement as Bert descended from the train with a bunch of roses in one hand. His smile was so wide it seemed to split his face in half.
She ran to meet him and Frankie set up a wail at being jogged about on her hip.
Bert bowed and handed her the roses. “I’ve got a raise,” he said. He fished in his pocket and brought out a paper bag of aniseed balls and handed them round. “We’ll even be able to go to Scarborough this year for a holiday.”
Sally began to cry with relief. When she could speak, she asked, “What about Lady Blenkinsop?”
“The lord lieutenant’s dealing with her. This is Rose’s doing. I know it is. She didn’t use the phone, did she?”
“No, but Dr. Linley said that he saw them on Farmer Jones’s cart heading towards Plomley today and then they came back in a hired carriage.”
Rose was sewing at the machine in the parlour when they came in and she smiled with relief when she saw all the happy faces.
“Everything all right?” she asked.
Sally rushed forward and hugged her. “I don’t know how you did it, but Bert’s got a raise and Lady Blenkinsop won’t be troubling us. I’ll get tea on.”
The children were so excited about their new frocks and about going to the fair that Rose decided to dress up for the occasion, never thinking for a moment that by doing so she was putting her life at risk.
Rose had given Sally one of her best hats, a leghorn straw embellished with little yellow silk flowers.
“You do look a picture,” said Bert to his wife, his face beaming with love. Rose felt a pang. This policeman saw his thin, hard-faced wife as beautiful. That was real love. Would any man ever look at her like that?
The day of the fair dawned sunny and warm. Rose was wearing a white lace gown embroidered with blue forget-menots. On her head she wore a straw hat covered in silk forget-me-nots. A fine cashmere shawl was thrown round her shoulders and she carried a white lace parasol. Daisy was wearing a green silk gown with a little rakish green hat perched on her curled hair.
The fair lasted two weeks. They decided to visit on the second week, after the horse fair was over, because the gypsies raced each other up and down the main street and there were always accidents.
They wandered around the dozens of stalls. The children clamoured for brandy snaps filled with cream and then walked around to look at the gypsy caravans where the women sat outside making pretty little pincushions stuffed with bran to sell at the fair.
Bert was on duty, so Sally kept near him, pushing the baby in a pram made out of an orange box and an old set of wheels.
The children dragged Rose and Daisy to the steam roundabouts and Rose good-naturedly helped Daisy lift the smallest child up onto the brightly painted horses before climbing on herself. How wonderful it was to ride round and round while the barrel organ churned out music-hall son
gs. The current favourite was: “Oh! Oh! Antonio, he’s gone away – left me on my own e-o, all on my own e-o, I’d like to meet him and his new sweetheart, then up will go Antonio – and his ice cream cart.”
Dr. Linley stopped to watch them. He was a keen amateur photographer. He raised his new Kodak camera just as the carousel slowed to a halt and snapped a photograph of Rose sitting side-saddle on the painted horse.
In the evening, he developed the photographs in his darkroom. He stared at the photograph of Rose. It was perfect. She was holding on to her hat and her lips were curved in a smile.
There was a new magazine for amateur photographers and they offered a prize every year for the best photograph. The next day, Dr. Linley entitled the photograph “A Summer’s Day at the Fair,” and posted it off.
The year moved into high summer, and in July Bert took two weeks’ leave and they all went on holiday to Scarborough on the Yorkshire coast.
Daisy reflected that she had never seen Rose so happy. She took the children swimming and never once did she complain about the rather seedy lodging-house where they stayed.
Sally’s face was filling out now that, thanks to the payment from Rose’s family, they could afford good food at every meal, and she was not so careworn looking after the children, as Rose and Daisy took the burden of that duty off her hands. For the first time in years, she and Bert were able to spend time alone together.
When they returned to the village they were all glowing with good health. Rose started to organize a concert to raise funds to repair the school roof. Daisy was to be the star performer, but Rose had promised to sing one song.
The village hall was packed when Rose, accompanied by Daisy, walked onto the stage and began to sing:
“Birds in the garden, all day long, singing for me their happy song
Flowers in the sunshine, wind and dew, all of them speak to me of you;
You that I long for, near or far, you that I follow, like a star,
Day may be weary, weary and long, you will come home at evensong.
When you come home, dear, all will be fair,
Home is not home if you are not there;