‘Clever,’ Maureen said, probably not getting the idea at all. Delia couldn’t blame her. And in truth, she had bought those buttons for an entirely different reason. They were a present, a secret sacrifice, for her Imps.
They sang in the blood in her veins, in the air against her skin, in the nerves in her teeth the moment Delia walked into any store. Told her when she was safe, warned her when she wasn’t. It was like dowsing.
When she’d arrived at Barkers that morning, they had told her this wasn’t a day for recklessness, but if Delia took care, they said, she and the girl would be fine. Then that amateur had nicked the can of pilchards, and somehow that had knocked the balance off. She’d felt it all the way around the store afterwards, an increasing sense that something was not right after all. So she had bought those buttons for luck, to remind the Imps who protected the working shoplifter of her love for them. To keep them on her side.
More than likely that was all a load of old cobblers but everyone had their superstitions. Most hoisters got caught once in a while, and Delia hadn’t, not ever. So she didn’t care if her little rituals were meaningless. She’d bought those buttons for the Imps: she felt safe again. When she and this apprentice returned to Barkers that afternoon, they could set to work with confidence.
The walk across Kensington Gardens was clearly an enormous distance to Maureen. Delia had to slow down so as not to leave her behind. That had its compensations, though. The park wasn’t especially beautiful, just a lot of lawns and trees planted with drab regularity, but it felt good to be surrounded by space rather than people for once. Here and there, young mothers, or nannies – it was hard to tell – played with their children, or their charges.
‘Can we stop a minute?’ Maureen said. ‘My legs ain’t half aching.’
‘You’ll need to get fitter than this if you want to be a hoister,’ Delia told her. But they waited for a while, Maureen leaning against a tree with her eyes closed while Delia watched a kid in school uniform feed a pair of lurid green birds that had no place in any English landscape. Parrots or something like that. They flew up to the boy with brazen confidence, landed on his wrist and shoulder and took peanuts directly from his hand.
‘Who are we going to see?’ Maureen asked, as she and Delia set off again.
‘Lulu Everard.’
‘Isn’t she the one what went to bed with Al Capone?’
‘I doubt it.’ Delia had heard the Capone story, of course, but she had no interest in gossip. If the girl hung around the others, she’d soon hear all their nonsense about Lulu’s American years. How between the wars she had consorted with slick-suited businessmen whose glossy names shimmered with violence. Dutch Schultz. Lucky Luciano. Meyer Lansky. And how, in 1934, Lulu was standing behind John Dillinger in the queue outside the Biograph movie house when Charles Winstead’s bullet exploded out of the gangster’s cheekbone. That same day, they said, still drenched in the blood of Public Enemy Number One, she had walked into a travel agency and booked her ticket back to England.
Three decades after she’d come home, Lulu’s London accent was still peppered with Americana. Whatever she had done over there, whatever had been done to her, or for her, she was glad to keep her memories to herself. She certainly had no time for the likes of Tommy the Spade, Itchy Pete or Teddy Bilborough – grown-up boys still playing at Cagney and Bogart in the streets of Fenfield. They acted those parts no better now than when they’d been kids, despite the off-the-peg suits and trilby hats Stella’s hoisters had nicked for them.
The afternoon was just beginning in Kensington Gardens. Shopgirls and office workers reaching the ends of their lunch breaks readied themselves to return to work. Delia and Maureen found Lulu near the Peter Pan statue, sitting alone on a bench by the Serpentine, surrounded by half a dozen well-stuffed shopping bags. They took seats either side of her.
At sixty-three Lulu was still striking in her mackintosh and broad pink hat. In her heyday, she must have been remarkable. Her job now was to wait in Kensington Gardens so the younger women could drop off the goods they’d stolen. She brought them all lunch too.
‘What you got?’ Delia asked her.
‘Ham and boiled egg,’ Lulu said. ‘And a bottle of Baldwin’s.’
Delia took the two remaining sandwiches. They were wrapped in greaseproof paper from the Wonderloaf that had been used to make them. ‘Is that all?’ she said, passing one to Maureen.
‘You’re last here,’ Lulu said. ‘Filled your bloomers for me, have you?’
‘Nah. Been showing this apprentice around Barkers. I’ll do some proper work with her later. We’ll need to look different, though – we were in there hours this morning. Is there anything in those bags we can borrow for the afternoon?’
Lulu assessed Maureen’s physique. ‘A bit Diana Dors, ain’t she? Doubt I’ve got much for her.’
‘We’ll manage.’ Delia picked up the half-empty bottle of Baldwin’s. She took a swig and handed the rest to Maureen, who looked suspiciously at the label.
‘What’s this?’
‘Sarsaparilla,’ Lulu told her. ‘Ain’t you had it before?’
Maureen took a cautious sip. ‘Tastes like medicine. Nice medicine, though, not horrible medicine.’ She drank down what was left and belched enthusiastically.
In one of the bags, Delia found a silk headscarf and a coat from Harvey Nichols that should fit Maureen well enough. ‘Nice. Who nicked these?’
‘Rita.’ Lulu snipped off the tags with a pair of nail scissors and stowed them carefully in her pocket for later reattachment. ‘Don’t you damage this stuff, girl,’ she told Maureen, handing her the coat and scarf. ‘We got customers expecting it perfect. Rita won’t thank you if you bring the price down.’
An hour later Delia and Maureen stood on the street outside Barkers, pretending to be interested in the window display. They checked their reflections in the glass. Back in Kensington Gardens, Delia had slipped into a thicket to put on a matronly twinset from Harrods. She’d also taken off her brown wig, revealing her own blonde hair, tied in a bun.
Maureen’s Harvey Nichols coat and headscarf had transformed her, and Delia had told her to switch to a paler shade of lipstick. The flash of cherry on the girl’s mouth had been the one noticeable thing about her. Otherwise, she was nearly invisible. Delia had spent the whole morning with her, and only had to look away for a moment to forget what she looked like. Maybe Stella was right to have high hopes for Maureen – as long as she had some talent for the work itself.
‘Just to be sure,’ Delia said, ‘we’ll go in separate this time. You wait here, and follow me after five minutes. Come up to Lingerie and then Furs, like I told you before. But don’t get too near. You aren’t with me and you don’t know me.’
‘I ain’t got no watch, Delia. How will I know when it’s five minutes?’
‘Count—’ She paused to do the sum in her head ‘—three hundred. Slowly. Like this—’ Delia took an audible half breath between each number. ‘One – two – three – and look in the shop windows. You can walk up and down the street a bit if you like. You got it? Then when you come in, you keep far off, but you watch what I do. Don’t try to take anything yourself, not yet. Just pay attention to how I do it.’
Something on the edge of Delia’s instinct had started to bother her. It was only the slightest twinge. She made Maureen repeat the full set of instructions twice. Especially the one about her not stealing anything herself.
As she entered the store, she turned her head for a final check, wondering whether to ditch the whole thing for today. But there was nothing to worry about. Maureen was following orders. The girl shuffled down the road, browsing shop windows, indistinguishable from any shy middle-class newlywed out looking for homewares. Eyes and memories would slide over her and continue their search for something of interest. Yes, it looked as if the Imps were taking care of her.
While the escalator carried her up to the third floor, Delia enjoyed the freedom of being briefly
responsible only for herself. This was how she liked it.
A lot of the girls worked pairs. While one did the hoisting, the other kept a lookout for shopwalkers, nosey customers or zealous assistants. Some went in for play-acting – one of them would accuse a male customer of impropriety, make a big fuss about it while her partner got on with nicking whatever she fancied. All that theatrical crap was, in Delia’s view, just asking for trouble. Quiet, alone and unnoticed was what she preferred. And when it went wrong for her, properly wrong, as it inevitably must one day, she’d only have herself to look out for, only herself to blame. No letting someone else down, no being let down herself.
She already knew she was going to steal something from Furs; even so, she went to Lingerie first. The two departments were next door to each other, and you didn’t want to spend too long hovering around the thing you aimed to pinch. Lingerie was a useful place to wait for other reasons too. Usually the atmosphere was a little embarrassed, with nobody looking too closely at anyone else. Today, however, a big fat bloke was in there, picking up one pair of silk knickers after another. He wasn’t doing anything bad enough to get himself kicked out, but he obviously enjoyed the feel of the fabric between his fingers, and occasionally he’d give one of the garments a discreet sniff. This was a good omen. The Imps must definitely be on Delia’s side now. With the assistants’ disapproving eyes all fixed on this pervert, she wouldn’t draw anyone’s attention, and it was easy for her to assess the situation across the aisle in Furs.
Exactly on cue, Maureen appeared. Keeping her distance as instructed, she shuttled through a rack of nightdresses, and avoided any eye contact with Delia. The girl was doing all right. Time to get on with it.
Delia strolled towards the black fox jacket she’d marked down for herself that morning. It was displayed slightly out of sight between a couple of big minks; simple to hoist and very sellable. She moved into its vicinity, her eyes deliberately focused on a hefty-looking red stole in the opposite aisle. She gave her surroundings a final check. Over in Lingerie, the fat pervert was still the centre of interest. Here in Furs there were two assistants on duty. A younger woman sat behind the counter and gazed dreamily off into the distance while the other, a senior saleswoman, dealt with a customer whose English didn’t seem very competent. Nobody was even aware of Delia, or of Maureen, who was now pretending to examine an absurd Russian-style fur hat while keeping a careful, and unexpectedly subtle, watch on her teacher.
The moment felt right. Delia leant in and lifted the fox jacket from its display. She would normally have moved completely out of sight for the next part, but she wanted Maureen to see what to do, and circumstances were perfect for that.
She turned her back away from the trio at the counter and, in full view of her pupil, held the jacket upside down. Then, squeezing as tightly as she could, with nimble, practised fingers, she rolled it into a cigar, pulled her skirt forwards at the waist and dropped the fur inside the massive, specially made bloomers beneath. A little shake of her backside and she felt the weight of the coat settle where it belonged, into the space between her legs. Its soft exterior brushed against the insides of her thighs as she stepped out from between the minks and made her confident, innocent way past the younger assistant, who was still gazing distractedly off, and her superior, still trying to explain herself to the foreign customer.
It was always tricky to walk smoothly with something so heavy hidden under your skirt. The tight elastic around her legs meant there was no danger of the jacket falling out of the bloomers, but its swinging needed to be controlled, and she had to adopt an uncomfortably wide gait. Nevertheless, she was confident her movements would seem natural. She felt pleased with herself too, having rolled and hoisted the jacket so brazenly and got away with it.
Then a voice interrupted her. ‘Excuse me! I don’t think that belongs to you, Miss.’
Someone had been watching her, and she hadn’t realised. How could this have happened? She readied herself to run, preparing for the way the fur under her skirt would unbalance her and obstruct her stride.
‘Get off me!’
That was Maureen shouting. The pervert from Lingerie had hold of her by both arms, just above the elbows. The girl twisted and squirmed, but the man was strong.
Delia’s thoughts tripped over each other, tumbled in confusion. A new shopwalker, obviously. Not a pervert – or not simply a pervert. She should have spotted him. How had she not noticed he was watching? Any moment now someone would grab her too. Maureen was only the accomplice after all. Delia had stolen the jacket.
What direction should she go? Maybe if she were to run down the ‘up’ escalator, she told herself – they wouldn’t expect that. But she was frozen. None of the ideas fighting in her head seemed capable of turning into action.
Maureen spat full in the shopwalker’s face. In return he slapped her hard, knocked her to the floor, wiped off the spit with his sleeve and bent to lift her back to her feet. The two assistants scampered out to help him.
Delia’s paralysing incomprehension evaporated. She realised that nobody had grabbed hold of her, and nobody was going to. None of them were even looking at her. They hadn’t seen her steal that fox jacket after all. It lay unnoticed between her legs. She was safe, as long as she could keep calm and get out. Maureen was the one in trouble. Only Maureen. The Russian hat the girl had been inspecting was now stuck halfway out of her waistband.
The stupid kid wasn’t meant to hoist anything yet. She’d been told that over and over. But when Delia had stolen the fox coat she’d made it look easy, and Maureen must have been so excited she’d forgotten her instructions, hadn’t been able to stop herself having a go too.
Now there was no way to save her. Delia started edging towards the escalators.
‘Excuse me, Madam.’ It was the shopwalker. He’d noticed her moving away. ‘Would you mind waiting until the police get here? You might need to make a statement.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Delia gave him her best Knightsbridge posh. ‘I’m afraid I was looking elsewhere when all this happened. Nothing I could tell the officers would be of the slightest use.’
‘Even so, Madam, I—bloody hell, you little—!’ Maureen had stamped hard on his foot.
Delia took the opportunity the girl had given her. When the shopwalker looked for her again, she was gone.
2
Elsewhere in the city that same morning, half an hour before Delia arrived in Kensington Square, Tess Green stepped out from the oily heat of the Underground and joined the mass of commuters on Euston Road. To a nineteen-year-old from Dewsbury, the anonymity of the capital was exhilarating. Here nobody meant anything to anyone else. She halted briefly to check her A-Z, then pushed forward.
A few turns along the pencil line she’d drawn on the map led her off the main concourse, into streets punctuated by cafes, bookshops and second-hand emporia, mostly still closed at half past nine. In sophisticated cities, she remembered, one did not talk of ‘areas’ but of ‘quarters’, and in this quarter the inhabitants obviously preferred to sleep late – or to remain in bed for other reasons. Eventually, she thought, this would be her life too. Though she, being an artist, would never waste the early morning light.
As she walked along, she slipped into a familiar daydream: herself as the sort of painter she’d read about in novels. Birdsong would wake her in the single-room studio where work and sleep and life all blended together. Still groggy from last night’s red wine and political argument, she’d make fresh coffee, then turn her attention to the man in her narrow bed, to the painting she was making of him. He’d be unconscious under the tumbled blanket, one arm and one leg uncovered. His spectacles and notebook nearby. Many years later, art historians would build entire lectures around this early work: The Sleeping Poet.
She laughed aloud at herself, at the silliness of writing her own epitaph before any of it had begun. Before she had even passed her art school interview. She didn’t actually like red wine or coffee,
though she had tried both two years ago on a sixth form French trip to Le Touquet. Just acquiring the proper tastes was going to take practice. To begin with, she needed to change into the clothes she was carrying in the duffel bag over her shoulder. Because dressed as she was right now, she’d have little chance of snagging any young poet’s interest, and still less of convincing an art school interview board that she was a suitable candidate.
Just ahead of her an elderly woman was unlocking the door of a cafe: Ginelli’s.
‘Are you opening up?’
‘Sure, of course.’ The woman spoke irritably, with a strong European accent. She was tiny, dressed in a black frock of some rough, heavy material her desiccated body seemed almost too frail to support.
‘Do you have a lavatory in there I could possibly use?’ Tess asked, remembering Nancy Mitford’s rule that it was a sin to say ‘toilet’ or ‘loo’.
‘This ain’t a public lav, darling. It’s a caff.’
‘Yes – of course. I’d like a coffee as well, afterwards. But if you could—’
‘It’s for staff, only. We ain’t got no toilet for customers.’
‘I’d really appreciate it if you could make an exception. It’s just I need somewhere to change my clothes. I’ve an interview this morning.’
The woman looked her up and down. ‘You’re dressed pretty smart.’
Smart was not the way Tess wanted to appear. Last night after the evening meal with Mum at their lodgings in Upper Norwood, she had sneaked out and hidden a duffel bag containing her real outfit in a neighbouring garden hedge, to be retrieved in the morning after she’d said goodbye. There was no point upsetting Mum, who had insisted on the clothes she thought would be right: a mid-length skirt, white blouse and patent leather shoes; but Tess was not going to turn up to an art school interview looking like this. Like a provincial secretary with a marital eye on the Area Manager.
Finer Things Page 2