God Save the Queen!

by Dorothy Cannell

  Vivian didn’t say anything; he was thinking that he had come to Bethnal Green to ask Flora Hutchins if she really believed that her grandfather’s death had been an accident, and now he could not do it, because only someone really vicious would kill the sparkle in her eyes.

  “It’s just a dream,” Flora continued with a rush, “and no, I haven’t heard back from the Queen. But I’m sure when a letter does come Sir Henry will forward it at once,” she said, fetching up a smile. And at that moment someone buzzed the shop door. “My goodness, who on earth can that be?” She started to run down the stairs, but Vivian edged her against the wall and nipped down ahead of her.

  “You’re going to have to be careful, especially at night,” he told her, feeling very much as if he had been put in charge of a bouncing puppy who would, with a guileless wag of the tail, welcome in miscreants of all sorts. “You don’t know who could be out there.”

  “Getting ready to steal me blind?” Flora, being rather tired, stifled a laugh behind her hand as she crossed the empty shop to stand behind him.

  “Or cosh you over the head,” Vivian responded repressively, but forbore to paint an even nastier scenario.

  “Cooee, it’s only me!” a cheery voice called through the door. “Mabel’s sister, Edna, from round the corner, with the bed I was supposed to bring over earlier.”

  “The what?” Flora said, whereas Vivian merely raised a bemused eyebrow and began somewhat reluctantly to undo the bolts. Both of them fully expected to find themselves face-to-face with a mattress and box spring swaying ominously in the wind and blocking the bearer from view. But what they actually saw when the door swung open was a woman who looked quite a bit like Lady Gossinger, with a roll of bottle green plastic under her arm and a boy of about ten or eleven at her side.

  “It’s the blow-up sort,” Edna Smith explained as she stepped over the threshold. “And this here’s my lad Boris, my grandson, that is. Say hello to the lady and gentleman and put a smile on your face, for God’s sake.”

  The result of this instruction was to make young Boris look more sullen than ever, but he did attempt to make himself useful by kicking the door shut behind him.

  “It’s so nice of you to come round.” Flora went to take the bed, if that was indeed what was tucked under her visitor’s arm, while Vivian instinctively looked around for a chair, or something of the equivalent to offer Mrs. Smith by way of hospitality.

  “So my aunt didn’t forget and leave Flora to sleep on the floor her first night here. Thanks most awfully for filling in the breach,” he said.

  “You’ll be young Viv ... Mr. Gossinger.”

  “That’s me. And may I say it’s a great pleasure to finally meet Aunt Mabel’s only sister.” If Vivian sounded distracted, it was because he couldn’t shake the feeling he was actually looking at her Ladyship done up in fancy dress. The resemblance between the sisters was certainly very strong. They had the same build and puffy facial features. There was, however, a world of difference when it came to his Aunt Mabel’s determined tweediness and this woman’s mock-lizard-skin coat and tarnished-blond coiffure, arranged in loopy curls on top and a French twist at back. And their voices were as different as night from day, Vivian noted. This one made no bones about being a Londoner born and bred.

  “It’s a pain in the bum to blow up,” Edna said, watching Flora cradle the bundle of green plastic. “One of my lodgers left it behind. If I remember right, he was the one what drove a lorry and had fallen out with his wife over her having a bit more than a cup of tea with the next-door neighbor. And Boris was on at me afterward to keep the bed in case one of the boys from his class should ever come over to spend the night. Not that he’s holding his breath.” This was said with a fond if somewhat worried look at her grandson. “A snobby lot they are at that school; enough to make you sick, but there it is. There’s always some that thinks they’re better than others.”

  Boris stared at the floor without comment, and both Flora and Vivian wondered if the boy was always this sullen or if it was just because he’d been dragged away from the TV, or possibly his homework—although somehow it was difficult to picture Boris being slavishly fond of algebra.

  “Brings back a lot of memories, it does, standing here.” Edna Smith was actually clacking around the shop room in high heels that looked dangerously unsuited to a woman of her heavyset build. “Whatever Mabel says different, Mum and Dad gave us the best childhood ever down here with all the secondhand stuff, mostly junk really, and upstairs, too—even though you couldn’t swing a cat round in the flat without knocking everything off the mantelpiece.”

  “I’m sure your parents did a lovely job of bringing you up.” Flora felt the warm glow that always came with meeting a kindred spirit.

  “Ever such happy times I had here, helping Mum and Dad when they was too busy behind the counter.” Edna dabbed at her eyes, streaking mascara onto her plump, rouged cheeks. “Most of the time they’d have me pretend to read a picture book, something easy because I was never what you’d call a brain. Anyway it didn’t matter if it was Puss-in-Boots because really I was there to keep a lookout to see nobody was nicking anything. Made me feel ever so important, it did. And believe you me,” this was said with a deep chuckle, “it wasn’t the teddy-boy types with their sideburns and leather jackets you had to watch for, not on your life! Often as not it was the little old ladies stinking to high heaven of lavender water that’d be stuffing china ashtrays with ‘A present from Blackpool’ into their pockets.”

  Edna Smith interrupted her memories to poke into the pockets of the lizard-skin coat. “Would you believe it, I meant to bring some tea bags so’s you could at least have a nice hot cuppa, but what with one thing and another,” her eyes shifted to her grandson, “I’ve come away without them. Never mind! It won’t take a minute for Boris to nip home. We’re in that block of council flats and he’s got the key in his pocket.”

  “I’m not going.” The boy came alive with a fierceness that startled Flora and Vivian, and they reassured him there was no need for him to fetch the tea bags because there was still plenty of orange juice left in the picnic basket so there was no question of anyone dying of thirst. Flora didn’t mention that they didn’t have a kettle or any cups, in case Edna felt compelled to provide them.

  “What’s got into you, talking so rude, Boris!” She looked more upset than seemed strictly necessary.

  “I told you I didn’t want to come and see her.” The boy directed a thumb in Flora’s direction and promptly got it slapped down by Grandma.

  “It’s dark out there, and raining too, by the sound of it.” Flora hoped this didn’t sound too much like a criticism of Mrs. Smith, but there it was. For some reason, the poor kid looked scared to death. The freckles stood out on his pale face as if he had been stricken with the measles.

  “Extremely kind of you to offer, Mrs. Smith,” said Vivian, turning to Flora almost as if they were a couple. “But we both understand Boris’s reluctance to—”

  “It’s not because I’m afraid, if that’s what you’re thinking!” The boy’s raised voice quivered and he stuck out his chin in the manner of a boxer welcoming his opponent’s punishing fist. “The dark doesn’t scare me, not one bit. It’s just that I think it’s stupid to go all the way home for some bloody tea bags.”

  “There’s no need to go using that word,” scolded his grandmother.

  “I only said—"

  “And I’ve told you never to say ‘stupid,’ it makes you sound stuck-up. But I suppose that’s what happens when you send them to private schools.” Edna now addressed Flora and Vivian. “Of course, we don’t pay for him to go to there. Boris is on a sort of scholarship. That’s why I have to keep quiet about taking a lodger now and then. Oh, the board of governors, they know I do hairdressing, but if they was to get wind that I make a bit of extra on the side they might stick it to me for at least part of the school fees.”

  “I won’t breathe a word,” Flora promised.


  “Anyway,” Edna directed this to Vivian, “the gentleman I’ve got at present is a relative of sorts. Some kind of cousin getting on in years, with all the usual aches and pains, and it was no skin off my nose to offer him the back bedroom. I see he gets his meals regular. He’s a nice man, is Mr. Phillips, wouldn’t you say so, Boris?”

  “Yes, Grandma.” This was said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, but there was no telling if this was due to Boris’s sour mood, rather than an active dislike of Edna Smith’s male friend. “How about I blow up the bed, that’s what we came for, isn’t it?”

  “That’s really kind.” Flora dared not look at Vivian Gossinger for fear she would catch him trying to repress a smile and that would set her off. And really it was unkind to think of laughing even on the inside, because the boy stood there looking as if what he wanted most in the world was a pair of boxing gloves and for someone to kindly volunteer to let him get in a good punch. “How about a chocolate biscuit,” she offered, “before you start on the bed?”

  “Thank you very much, miss,” Boris suddenly looked almost cheerful, “but I can’t possibly accept because Grandma here,” he ducked his head in a mock bow in Edna’s direction, “she’s always gone and told me never to take sweets—and I suppose that means biscuits, too—from strangers.”

  “More for us, then,” said Vivian with a smile for Flora as he slipped an arm around her shoulders.

  “And I’ve had just about enough of your lip, Boris, my lad.” Edna grabbed the blow-up bed from the smirking boy and used it to provide him a series of whacks on the bottom while herding him toward the back of the shop. “Now you’ll take this upstairs to one of the bedrooms if you know what’s good for you. Get it blown up and then sit your bum down on the floor until I’m good and ready to call you back down.”

  “Want me to make sure it’s good and bouncy?” Boris stuck his head round the corner for an elaborate wink at Vivian before a series of thuds and thumps informed those left below that the boy was playing hopscotch on his way up the stairs.

  “I’m too old for this game.” Edna took off her high heels, tucked them under her arm, and hobbled across the room to rest her weary back against the shop counter. “Being a grandmother, is what I mean. But what was I to do but take him in when his mum— that’s my daughter Lisa—did a bunk? And his dad was never in the picture from day one.”

  “Poor Boris.” Flora eased out from the comfort of Vivian’s arm and went to stand by the beleaguered older woman’s side. “I was so lucky ...” She was about to say this was because she’d had a grandfather who’d made up in the most loving and magical sort of way for her not having parents. But this would not have been exactly tactful, considering Edna had set aside the shoes as if even they were an insupportable burden for someone whose spirit had been broken by an eleven-year-old boy.

  Besides, Flora found herself wondering, with a lump in her throat, whether she hadn’t been at times more of a pain than a blessing. Had Grandpa always told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth when he used to tell her she was the light of an old man’s life? What about the time she’d lied about the man climbing through her bedroom window and muddling everything up, after she had just put the place to rights as instructed?

  Looking back, she counted herself extremely fortunate that hadn’t been the end of Grandpa then and there. He might have had a heart attack.... The lump in her throat broke apart, exploding into particles of misery that flooded through her from head to toe. As it was, Grandpa must have spent many a sleepless night worrying that she would go from one wicked lie to the next until she ended up as some sort of confidence trickster.

  “You look as though you could do with a stiff drink. Hold on a minute and I’ll fix you right up.” Vivian’s voice wrapped itself around Flora like a warm woolly blanket, and it didn’t matter a bit that he was talking to Edna. He was here, forming a bridge between the present and the past; and that was every bit as necessary as the glass he put in the other woman’s hand.

  “Orange juice,” he was saying cheerfully. “Nothing like it for putting a smile on your lips and a song in your heart.”

  “You’re a bit of a lad, aren’t you?” The sparkle that appeared in Edna’s eyes was of the determined sort, but still managed to offset the mascara in the hollows above her cheeks. “Not nearly so toffee-nosed as I thought you’d be, from Mabel’s letters. Ever so hoity-toity is the way I’ve been picturing everyone at Gossinger Hall. Not just Sir Henry and that dotty old auntie of his, but even that butler bloke going in one door and out the other with the silver tea tray. Well, talk about silence landing with a thud!” Edna looked as though she wished the floor would open up and she’d reappear in China. “Trust me to say something tactless!”

  “It’s all right,” said Flora. “I’d hate it if no one dared say Grandpa’s name. It would make him seem more out of reach than ever.”

  “You poor little love, left all alone in the world. My heart goes out to you, dearie. And if there is anything at all I can do to make you feel less defenseless as you try to make your way, just remember old Edna is just a holler away. You’ll have to come over for a proper tea, lots of nice bread and butter—none of that stuff with the crusts cut off. And that means you, too.” She looked hopefully at Vivian. “That would tickle Mabel’s funny bone, wouldn’t it? You sitting in my council flat with a cup of char on your knee.”

  “I’d enjoy that no end, coming to see you, I mean, Mrs. Smith.” Vivian’s smile had a slightly thoughtful edge. “How about the day after tomorrow, if that suits?”

  “Oh, yes, please!” It was quite ridiculous, but Flora, meeting his eyes, felt like Alice being invited down the rabbit hole into a land where wonders never ceased.

  “I oughtn’t to have made that crack about Mabel,” Edna continued, sounding remorseful. “Say what you like, she did remember my birthday this year for the first time in God knows how long. Sent a present back, she did, with Boris that day.” She tilted back her head and raised the glass of orange juice to her lips. “Oh, well! Bottoms up, as the actress said to the bishop.”

  “What day was that?” asked Vivian.

  “There, I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Gone running off at the mouth.” Edna took another gulp perhaps in hope of steadying her nerves, and drained the glass. “I’d made up my mind, true as I’m standing here, that I wouldn’t say a word about Boris being at Gossinger Hall the day your grandfather met with that horrible accident. And yes, it was that day Mabel sent him home with my birthday present.” Her eyes sorrowfully met Flora’s.

  “You mean,” Flora gently removed the glass before Edna could drop it, “you mean Boris was one of the boys on the school outing? I was glad, when I got round to thinking about it, that the coach had left or was just leaving when Grandpa was found. But of course they had to be questioned afterward. Oh, poor Boris! Do you think that’s why he’s been acting up?”

  “It’s a puzzle,” Edna rubbed her eyes, “because I’d never have said Boris is what you’d call a sensitive child.”

  “Most eleven-year-olds are horrid little ghouls,” Vivian offered encouragingly. “At that age I would have considered being in any way connected to Sudden Death a great adventure and would have wanted to crow about it to anyone who would listen.” He reached for Flora’s hand but let his arm fall to his side. Now he wished she hadn’t cut her hair. She looked so cold without it—like an urchin child abandoned on a wintry street corner by a neglectful adult.

  “But that’s the funny thing,” murmured Edna.

  “What is?” asked Vivian.

  “That Boris hasn’t been his usual show-off self about being in the thick of things, so to speak. He won’t say a word about that day, other than he saw his Aunt Mabel. And I only got that out of him because I found her birthday present to me in his coat pocket. Don’t ask me what’s eating him because I haven’t no idea. But one thing I can tell you, I’d do anything in the world for that lad of mine ... well, grandparents
are like that, aren’t I right, dearie?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Flora woke up the next morning to hear someone coming up the stairs. Still blurry from sleep, she thought it was her grandfather and that his death was all a terrible dream. But when she sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes, she saw that she was in the larger of the bedrooms in the flat and that it wasn’t her grandfather but Vivian Gossinger who stood in the doorway with his hands full.

  “Breakfast,” he announced. “How do you like bagels? I picked some up from the shop a couple of doors down along with a cup of coffee for each of us.”

  “That was nice of you.” Flora knew she sounded and looked stupid with the blanket she had found in the airing cupboard pulled up to her chin, and what was left of her hair sticking up on end. But to have smiled at him might have given him the idea that she was making the most of the situation. Strangely, she didn’t focus on the upside-down nature of things that had Vivian serving her breakfast in bed.

  “Just a small token of appreciation for letting me stay the night on the spare bedroom floor. I was extremely comfortable with the traveling rug I brought in from the car.” Vivian set the tray on the floor and handed her a paper cup.

  “You couldn’t help your car not starting.”

  “That’s kind of you to say,” Vivian handed her a bagel, “but if Uncle Henry were here he’d point out I’ve always been the worst kind of slacker when it comes to anything mechanical, which would include remembering to fill up at the petrol pump. And as you can see I’m no better when it comes to putting a meal on the table, or I should say the floor? Look, I’ve forgotten to bring you a serviette.” He crossed to the door. “Won’t be a minute. There’s bound to be one of the paper ones left in the picnic basket.”