Choice of Straws

by Braithwaite, E. R. ;

  And he said, ‘Oh yes, you told me,’ or something like that, and dropped the matter.

  Chapter

  Six

  I’D NEVER BEEN TO a funeral before in my life. Around ten o’clock this car came and took us to the little chapel in the cemetery, our Mum and Dad and me. Inside were a few people we knew from our street. First time I ever saw Mrs Collins not smiling or whistling. Right in front was the coffin with flowers on it. Funny that, Dave had always hated flowers cut and now they were all piled up on top of him. Even in his book he’d written something about flowers!

  Flowers

  Flowers always taste bitter.

  They’re scared of people.

  Come near and we die,

  Whispers the red rose.

  Tulips and daffodils

  Turn away sighing;

  The time has come for dying.

  Cool and enticing,

  The grass

  Whispers, stay awhile,

  When people pass,

  Leaves always taste better.

  D. BENNETT

  From a side door the minister came in, white-haired and tired looking, dressed in white robes over black robes, ribbons hanging down from the book in his hands with blue veins like a road map. He stood on this little pulpit near where Dave was and I could see his shoes and the turn-ups of his trousers under the black robe. Then everybody stood up and he began to say prayers. At first I didn’t get the hang of it, the words were running into each other and he was sort of singing what he was saying, but it wasn’t singing. I was thinking what Dave would have said about this old codger carrying on about his not being really dead only sleeping; and all the time his face tired and wistful and even the skin greyish as if he’d not felt the sun on him in years.

  Then everybody knelt down while he prayed some more, and got up again, me doing whatever the rest did. They seemed to know what to do without the minister making any signal or anything. Then he stopped that singing voice and said, looking up at the ceiling, that the day would come when there’d be this loud sound of trumpets and all the graves would burst open and everybody come out and fly up to heaven. I mean, what kind of funny fairy tale stuff is that? If Dave could only have heard him. And he went on about Dave being asleep in Jesus, and the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. I wondered what he’d say if he only knew what Dave had been up to. I mean, if he’d known Dave had stuck that Spade, would he say Dave was asleep in Jesus?

  Anyway he was reading the stuff so I don’t suppose he really cared one way or another. After all he’d never seen Dave or knew anything about him. And the way he was reading; he was in a hurry to get it over. Can’t be fun for anybody, even a minister, being around coffins all the time. And through the window these three men in working clothes waiting and smoking behind their hands. And the way he said it, so sure, as if he could see Dave sleeping. Open that box and he’d get the shock of his life.

  I looked at Mum and she was very pale, so I moved close to her, touching her, to let her know I’m there, in case she’s feeling sick or something and she looks up at me and tries to smile, only she doesn’t quite make it. I stopped listening to that old parson and all that stuff he was reading from that book and started thinking how none of this mattered one little damn to Dave and we might just as well not have come.

  In a few minutes the service was over and somebody must have pulled a string or something, because this curtain came across the coffin. And suddenly it got me, and I couldn’t stop the tears. There and then I knew that Dave was gone, for ever, and I was alone. My knees felt as if they couldn’t support me, I had to hold on to the seat in front. Then Mum touched me, for me to go out. On the way home I couldn’t help looking up at tall chimneys we passed and thinking that soon Dave would be just a wisp of smoke rising till it reached the clouds or even heaven, wherever that was, and that from now on some part of him would be floating away up there, and some part of him mixing with the rain and the sunshine, the breeze and the snow.

  After we’d changed Mum said to our Dad why didn’t he and me go over to the allotment instead of mooning about the place, and we said okay. Half-way up the street Dad said would I run back and fetch some string for tying up the bean poles, so I went in through the back door and there’s our Mum sitting at the kitchen table, crying her heart out. She didn’t hear me so I backed out and closed the door softly. Truth is I felt like crying myself. Down the road I bought some string at the newsagent’s so I wouldn’t have to say anything about our Mum crying to our Dad.

  Chapter

  Seven

  BACK AT THE WORKS nobody came fussing around, but the way they’d nod and smile you knew they were sorry about Dave. Funny, when it was Dave and me the fellows didn’t try to sort us out, they just called us ‘Hi, mate’ or Bennett. Now one or two began calling me Jack or Jack boy. First time one of them said Jack boy I thought of that Sandra, but she’d said it quite differently. Old Man McGowan asked me if I wanted to move to another part of the shop, I suppose because of me remembering Dave, but I said no, I preferred to stay where I was. Fact is I wasn’t feeling upset any more about Dave. It was as if he’d just gone away for a while. I’d told Mum it was okay to leave his bed just as it was and she’d said why not take the record player up to my room, so now at night I could stay up there and listen whenever I liked.

  A few nights later a funny thing happened. I was feeling restless and not wanting to sit around the house so I decided to go up West, not for anything special, just to walk around a bit. Going into the station, I don’t know why but I looked around and there near by the kiosk where they sell fags and sweets and stuff like that is Baldy’s pal. While I’m buying my ticket I watch him getting something from the kiosk and I get the feeling that he’s following me, you know, like on the flicks. But it doesn’t bother me, I’m not scared or anything. I mean, those fellows think they’re so bright, like this Inspector Maigret on the telly. So I get my ticket and go down, but he’s not following, even when the train leaves he’s not on it. But you can never tell with those blokes, so up West I go over to the Kaleidoscope and sit around having a coffee and listening to some jazz and watching these birds. And there’s one of them sitting by herself dressed up all in black with this black sweater, coarse knit and too big for her, and black hair hanging down her face with this whitish make-up, making her look a bit sick in that light. And I thought, One of those student types. And after a while she saw me looking at her and she sort of smiled and I thought, Well, why not? So I go over and sit beside her, she making room for me as if it is okay. And I begin chatting her up, but she’s not a student at all. I mean she speaks quite ordinary. Lives up Willesden way and works in the city. Typist. I mean, she’s not a student or anything and dressing up like that. But she’s okay, nice teeth and she can take a joke. Ruth, her name is, Ruth Livingstone. And she asks me my name and I tell her it’s Dave Bennett. Don’t know why. It just came to me to say so. Funny, all the time I’m talking with her I’m thinking about that other one, and watching the way Ruth moves her hands, the nails bitten down to the quick on each finger. Miss Ruddy Spencer. Bloody snooty Spade. I wondered what her name was, besides Spencer. I had a couple of cups of Espresso with Ruth and later walked with her to Piccadilly Circus for our trains, going in opposite directions. I took her phone number and said I’d give her a ring some time.

  Chapter

  Eight

  THERE WASN’T MUCH TO the inquest. The police read a statement about the accident, where it happened and what time, and showed photographs of it. Apart from the police there was our Dad and me and the coroner, and Miss Spencer all dressed in black sitting with a tall woman, coloured like herself, and proud looking too. And the doctor who had examined the bodies, and a few other people I didn’t know. And all it boiled down to was the driver must have lost control or something. The doctor identified Dave’s ring as the
one he’d removed from one of the bodies. And the police talked about finding Dave’s knife. Then I went up and identified Dave’s ring and his knife. They called Miss Spencer and she said yes, her brother Dr William Spencer drove the Morris saloon with that number, and he was expected home that night but didn’t arrive. Cool and calm she was. Even in that black stuff which didn’t really suit her, she looked like some model, that long neck and the thin nose tilted up in the air. I sat there imagining how it would be to get close to that piece. After all the talk and questions, the coroner said that in the circumstances the only verdict which should be returned was death by misadventure. So that was it. Outside I figured Dad would want to talk to Miss Spencer, so I waited with him till the two of them came out. Dad spoke to the girl and she introduced him to the tall woman, her mother. Nearly as tall as Dad in her high-heels, and good looking like her daughter. I figured it must be because they lived in England. So I’m standing there and she has to introduce me to her mother too.

  Her mother and our Dad get talking, so I say to her, ‘Miss Spencer, I’m sorry you think I’m ill-mannered.’ Really I didn’t give a damn what she thought, but I guessed this was a sure way to soften her up.

  ‘I wouldn’t give it a thought if I were you,’ she says, and I think that if I dropped dead that one would step right over me and not even notice. But now I’d started it and I suddenly made up my mind that, come hell or high water, I’d get close to her. We’d moved a few feet away from her mother and our Dad, mostly because she wasn’t standing still.

  ‘I don’t know what I’ve said or done to upset you,’ I tell her, ‘but whatever it is I’m sorry.’ Christ, if anybody could have heard me carrying on like that to a Spade, and she looking as if she didn’t give a damn one way or another.

  Then, without thinking I said, ‘You know, you should never wear black. That other dress, the grey one you wore last time, suits you much better.’ I was surprised, myself, to hear it coming out of my mouth; I mean, I hadn’t prepared it or anything. She fastened those big grey eyes on me for a long time, as if she was making up her mind what to say, then they sort of crinkled at the sides and she smiled. Nice white teeth like Maureen’s.

  ‘Why, thank you kindly, sir,’ she said, half mocking, making it like a joke. And we both laughed.

  ‘No, really, I mean it,’ I told her. And we stopped laughing, standing there looking at each other.

  ‘I suppose I must have sounded terribly rude when I said you were ill-mannered,’ she said, after a while.

  ‘Well, you know how it is, I was upset about Dave. We being twins and that.’ Dave wouldn’t mind about that. She said okay, she understood and anyway it didn’t matter so why didn’t we forget the whole thing. Moving away towards her mother. Grabbing at straws, I said I hoped that the accident and everything had not interfered too much with her studies, and she said she hadn’t been able to face a book since, and her mother was taking it really hard. Then she said well, they’d better be going and I said was there any chance of seeing her again. That stopped her cold, and those eyes got big again and watchful and I could feel her closing up against me.

  So I said, ‘I want to be sure you’re not still angry with me, Miss Spencer.’ Smooth and easy it came out, like how old Dave used to chat up a new bird. Watching her face, waiting to hear whether she’d swallow that one.

  ‘I’m really not angry,’ she said, the voice friendly again.

  ‘Then can I see you again some time? Or even telephone you just to say hello?’

  This time she smiled. I’d made it sound like I was ready to go down on my knees or something.

  ‘Oh well, you can telephone if you like. We live at Leigh-on-Sea, and the number is in the directory.’ And with that she walked past to her mother. I mean, after all this friendly talk it’s natural for a girl to smile and look happy, but this one still wore her face serious, though just a little softer. Talking with our Dad, her mother reminded me of Mrs McIlroy who used to teach us in the Infants. Same kind of thin, kind face, but brown.

  After they’d gone our Dad said, ‘They’re very nice people, Son,’ meaning the Spencers.

  Chapter

  Nine

  A COUPLE OF EVENINGS later Baldy dropped in, him and his shadow, smiling the same old friendly smile as if the only thing that mattered to him in the wide world was doing good turns for people, like getting enough evidence on them to put them away for at least a year. This time Dave’s ring was his excuse. He handed it to our Dad, but he seemed not too keen to take it, so I took it from Baldy and signed the slip of paper for it.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to hang on to the knife a while longer while we pursue some enquiries into another matter,’ he said.

  Our Dad asked him why, because he thought that the inquest meant the end of things.

  ‘We’ve run up against a problem,’ he said, putting on his big brother act. ‘You see, we’ve been following up on the report from the bus conductor. He said your son had joined the bus at White­chapel Underground, so we had a chat with all the people who were on duty at the station that night, just in case anybody might have seen him coming out of the station. Naturally we showed them the photograph you so kindly lent us, but only one person thinks he remembers seeing him. Strangely enough he feels sure that your son went down into the station. The trouble with these investigations is that after a day or two nobody remembers anything clearly. The fellow I’m telling you about was the ticket collector on duty at the time and he thinks he recognizes your son from the photograph, but he’s not positive about it. But he’s sure that if it’s the chap he’s thinking about he went down into the station. Says he saw him standing near the door and gave him a shout, because a train had just come in.’

  Part of me was hearing Baldy, the other carefully retracing my steps of that evening. I remembered the fellow calling me about the train; and saw him leaning against the wall near the barrier. He didn’t seem interested in my ticket so I didn’t show it to him, just rushed down the stairs. Lucky I had the return half. If I’d had to buy a ticket I’d have had it. At Upminster, that old fellow who collects the tickets late at night never looks at anyone; he only watches the tickets just in case you have to pay excess. There was a whole crowd got off that night so he didn’t have time to look at anyone, even if he wanted to. Didn’t see anyone I knew in my carriage. The ticket. Hell it was a return half Upminster—Piccadilly Circus. Didn’t mean a thing. If they wanted to trace a ticket they’d be looking for one from Whitechapel. Anyway, if Baldy really knew something he’d not be sitting here making polite conversation. He’d have had me over to the police station in no time. Let him play cat-and-mouse if he wanted to, I couldn’t care less.

  ‘The strange thing about it is this,’ he was saying. ‘Although he can’t be absolutely sure, the ticket collector at Whitechapel thought he recognized your son’s photograph. He was the one on duty on the late shift. None of the other station personnel remembered seeing anyone like him. On the other hand the bus conductor recognized him as the lad who got on his bus and jumped off at Leytonstone. The point I’m trying to make is that, if both men are right, then your son couldn’t have been in two places at once. Stands to reason.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s all this leading to?’ our Dad asked him. I could see our Dad was becoming uncomfortable and I thought, please God let him keep his mouth shut. If he started any kind of argument with Baldy, chances are he would say something which would start the ball rolling towards me. Mum sat quiet, looking at Baldy without either interest or irritation, the way she sat through the rare occasions when she let Spotty Frock into the house. Boredom plus patience.

  Baldy had left it to the last, but I’d had a feeling it was coming. ‘On the very night your son was killed a young coloured fellow, a West Indian named (here he took the old notebook from his pocket and flipped through the pages) Carlton Thomas, was found dying in the street outside some condemned buildings i
n Hillingdon Terrace back of the London Hospital, Whitechapel. He’d been stabbed twice and died soon after being admitted to hospital. According to the police from Leman Street, there seemed to have been a violent struggle. Samples of blood recovered from fragments of broken bottles indicated that Thomas’s assailant was wounded in the struggle. There might even have been more than one assailant. From the nature of Thomas’s wounds, the doctor who performed the autopsy described the weapon which could have been used. Its description closely fits the knife found at the scene of the accident in which your son was killed. Mrs Bennett, Mr Bennett, I hope you’ll forgive me putting the matter so bluntly, but, as you know, I’ve got a job to do. If I don’t do it someone else will. The strange thing about this is that Thomas was not robbed. His wallet containing more than thirty pounds was found intact in the inside breast-pocket of his coat. From all reports it would seem that he was a friendly fellow. From enquiries at the King’s Head, a pub in Hillingdon Terrace, it was learned that earlier in the evening Thomas had been there drinking with some friends. He’d bought some liquor at the off licence and spoke about a birthday party he was having the following evening. He left the pub a little before closing time. He wasn’t drunk, according to the report. Never was in any trouble. Worked as a clerk for a firm of hauliers at Lambeth. Highly thought of by everyone.

  ‘Apparently nobody heard any sounds of a struggle. Most of the buildings around there are unoccupied, the place is scheduled for reconstruction; but a few people live in rooms here and there, you know, the diehards who refuse to budge until the bulldozers are on top of them. Nobody heard anything. Couldn’t have been woman trouble because from all reports Thomas was a decent, quiet fellow. Lived in lodgings at Rexal Street, around the corner from where the murder took place.

  ‘My problem is this. If I trace your son’s movements backward beginning at the accident in which he was killed, I think he got a lift in Dr Spencer’s car at Leytonstone. He arrived at Leytonstone in a bus which picked him up at Whitechapel Underground station. From the condition of the seat he used it is clear that he was badly wounded, somewhere in the back. He must have sustained that wound before taking the bus, which brings him somewhere in the neighbourhood of Whitechapel station. Now where do I go from there?’