‘Well, that’s a fairly good reason,’ said Boots.
Chinese Lady, appearing in the hall, asked, ‘What’s been goin’ on out there?’
‘Just a few snowballs whizzing about, Grandma,’ said Tim.
‘I might of guessed your father would forget his age as soon as he got home,’ said Chinese Lady.
‘No, that was Mum,’ said Tim, ‘she wanted to be sixteen again.’
‘Em’ly, you been throwin’ snowballs?’ said Chinese Lady.
‘Only a few, Mum, and only at Boots,’ said Emily.
‘Yes, we all did,’ said Eloise, and as Boots unbuttoned his coat she moved and helped him off with it. Rosie smiled. Eloise had become the first to do things for Boots. ‘Papa, ’ow wet your coat is. We must dry it at the fire.’
‘No need,’ said Boots, ‘it’ll dry on the hallstand.’
‘No, no,’ said Eloise, ‘it will feel cold and damp when you put it on in the morning. I will ’ang it on the fireguard.’ And off she went with the coat to the kitchen. Chinese Lady and Emily followed. Tim looked at Boots and Rosie, a grin on his face.
‘I like her all right,’ he said, ‘but she’ll get us a bad name.’
‘How?’ asked Boots.
‘Calling you Papa,’ said Tim.
Rosie laughed. Boots regarded her with affection.
‘Nice you’re home, poppet,’ he said.
‘Love it,’ said Rosie, ‘so come on. Nana’s making a pot of tea. One day we’ll all drown in tea.’
‘Not a bad way to go,’ said Boots, as they moved towards the kitchen, ‘and more respectable than drowning in beer as far as your grandmother’s concerned.’
‘What a sober thought, Dad,’ said Tim with a flash of wit, and Rosie thought that despite the stimulating atmosphere of Somerville, home was where she belonged. Home was family. A family of fun.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Bessie Brown of Caulfield Place, Walworth, that evening, ‘I still can’t properly take it in, our Sally and Freddy both gettin’ married on the same day, Easter Saturday.’
‘Well, keep tryin’, me old Dutch,’ said lean and wiry Mr Brown, ‘and when you’ve took it in, you’ll get used to it. There’s still a bit of time to go.’
‘Orrice’s mother has been ever so kind and helpful,’ said placid Mrs Brown, ‘she’s a real lady.’
‘So are you, Bessie,’ said Mr Brown, ‘and I ain’t reluctant to say so.’
‘I never knew our Sally more up in the clouds,’ said Mrs Brown.
‘It’s love, I reckon,’ said Mr Brown.
‘I think it’s love,’ mused Mrs Brown.
‘I already said that,’ pointed out Mr Brown, toasting his feet at the kitchen fire and pulling on his pipe.
‘Sally’s never been in love serious before,’ said Mrs Brown.
‘Well, she is now,’ said Mr Brown.
‘Our Sally, head over heels like she was only seventeen, would you believe,’ said Mrs Brown.
‘Picked the right bloke, though,’ said Mr Brown.
‘And then our Freddy and all,’ said Mrs Brown, conjuring up imaginative pictures of Freddy and Sally at the altar together, along with their respective marriage partners. ‘I always thought he’d marry Cassie one day.’
‘I reckon Cassie always thought so too,’ said Mr Brown. ‘Mind, Freddy put up a good fight.’
‘Oh, you saying something, love?’ said Mrs Brown.
‘I’ve spoke one or two words,’ said Mr Brown, ‘but I don’t think you’ve been listenin’. I’d say you’re up in the clouds with Sally.’
‘Wasn’t it ’andsome of Sammy to give Freddy a rise of ten shillings?’ said Mrs Brown. ‘He told Freddy to put it into his savings so that he and Cassie could buy their own house later on.’
‘That’s what I call practical,’ said Mr Brown.
‘Don’t you think that’s sensible?’ said Mrs Brown.
‘Well, Bessie, I did just say—’
‘Then there’s Sally come home from work today with a promise from Sammy that after the honeymoon, he’s promotin’ her to the Oxford Street shop as assistant manageress,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘I can’t hardly take it all in.’
‘Well, like I already mentioned, Bessie, keep tryin’ and—’
‘You saying something else, love?’ said Mrs Brown.
‘Only a word or two, Bessie,’ said Mr Brown.
‘Sally’s gone round to see Orrice and give him the news,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Of course, her job will only last until she starts havin’ a family. Still, she could hardly wait to go and tell Orrice.’
‘Taken one of ’er clouds with ’er, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Mr Brown.
‘What’s that?’ asked Mrs Brown.
‘Nothing much, Bessie,’ said Mr Brown.
‘You’re not startin’ to talk to yourself in your old age, are you, love?’ said Mrs Brown.
‘Might as well,’ said Mr Brown.
Jim Cooper, returning to the kitchen after answering a knock on the front door, said, ‘That was Sally. She’s now in the parlour with Horace.’
‘Oh, much more suitable than the shop,’ smiled Mrs Rebecca Cooper, a handsome woman of immaculate appearance.
‘Horace deserves a medal for his perseverance,’ said Jim. Their adopted son had conducted his courtship of Sally at her place of work, the Adams dress shop in Kennington. He’d survived a number of discouraging confrontations with her until Sally suddenly realized she was enjoying the most exhilarating and challenging moments of her life. That led to compatibility, to many outings together and, inevitably, to their first ecstatic kiss. Sally immediately followed this by saying, ‘Yes.’
‘Beg pardon?’ said Horace, a promising professional cricketer with the right amount of good looks. ‘I mean, yes what?’
‘Well, you’ve been saying for ages you’re savin’ up to get married to someone, so it might as well be me,’ declared Sally.
‘You’re not someone,’ said Horace, ‘you’re a lot more than that.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said Sally.
‘Yes, my idea exactly,’ said Horace.
‘So?’ said Sally.
‘Let’s have another one,’ said Horace.
‘Another kiss? Wait a bit,’ said Sally, ‘is it me you’re savin’ up for or not?’
‘Well, seeing that I don’t know how I could live without you, would you do me the honour, Miss Brown?’ asked Horace.
‘Oh, mutual, I’m sure, Mr Cooper,’ said Sally, ‘so how could I refuse?’
‘Well, then?’ said Horace.
‘Yes, let’s have another one,’ said Sally, entirely pleased with herself for having had the intuitive good sense to wait for a young man as refreshing as Horace to come courting. She smiled. ‘Two, if you like, Horace.’
So Horace had helped himself to a double encore, and that led to arranging a double wedding with Cassie and Freddy on Easter Saturday.
This evening Sally had called to tell Horace that after their honeymoon she was transferring to the Adams dress shop in Oxford Street as assistant manageress. And Sammy Adams, she said, was going to pay her thirty-five shillings a week.
‘Thirty-five shillings, Horace.’
Horace whistled.
‘Handsome, very handsome,’ he said. ‘We could think about buyin’ the house we’re goin’ to rent in Kennington Park Place. Who’s goin’ to take charge of our earnings?’
‘I am,’ said Sally, ‘and I’ll give you some of yours back each week for pocket money.’
‘Hold on—’
‘I’m sure your dad gives your mum his earnings,’ said Sally, ‘and I know my dad gives his to my mum. It’s traditional.’
‘Sounds crafty to me,’ said Horace. ‘Let’s toss for it.’
‘Not likely,’ said Sally, ‘I might lose. Anyway, the job’ll only last until – well, until.’
‘Until what?’ said Horace.
‘Oh, I’ll leave that to you, lovey,’ said Sally.
‘I get it,’ said
Horace, ‘you mean until – well, until.’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Sally.
‘Who’s blushing?’ asked Horace.
‘Not me,’ said Sally.
‘Must be me, then,’ said Horace.
‘This is it,’ said Dusty Miller, a few minutes after Ginger Carstairs had arrived in his lodgings in Stead Street, Walworth. He produced a plank of stout timber, ten inches wide, two inches thick and a yard long. Six inches from the end of the plank a semi-circle, three inches deep, had been cut out of it. ‘That drops over the handle, Ginger, and the plank then bars the door on the outside. Which means?’
‘The door can’t be pulled open from the inside,’ said Ginger Carstairs.
‘You’re right first time,’ said Miller.
‘Well, of course I bloody well am,’ said Carstairs, as much of a cold-eyed character as Miller was, ‘it was my idea, wasn’t it?’
‘Now don’t get shirty,’ said Miller.
‘Listen, the whole thing’s my baby, and that puts me in charge,’ said Carstairs. ‘So I’ll point out you’ll need to drill a hole at the other end of the plank to take a long nail. One blow from a hammer has got to drive the nail into the door to hold the plank in place, or it’ll swing downwards and drop away from the handle. And there won’t be time for more than one blow. Have you got that?’
‘The hole’s already drilled,’ said Miller. ‘I’m a professional, and the next time I’m way behind an amateur will be the first’
‘Some professional, considering you’ve slipped up and done time,’ said Carstairs.
Miller growled.
‘Just a few months for handling stolen goods,’ he said.
‘I haven’t done any,’ said Carstairs.
‘Well, you wouldn’t have, would you?’ said Miller. ‘This is your first job. What was it you said made you join the free-booters?’
‘I’m a rebel in search of quick riches, that’s what I said.’
‘So you did,’ said Miller. ‘When d’you get the shooter?’
‘In good time,’ said Carstairs.
‘Hope you realize that if we’re copped, it’ll be a long stretch for both of us,’ said Miller. ‘At the Old Bailey, no-one likes shooters.’
‘You can’t rob a bank with a bow and arrow,’ said Carstairs.
‘I’m still not sure we can do without a driver and a running engine,’ said Miller.
‘I’m not in favour of a three-way split,’ said Carstairs. ‘I’ll do the driving, as agreed. Now, let’s go through the plan again.’
Chapter Two
A COUPLE OF days later, Tim confided to Rosie that he thought Eloise was getting to be a bit sugary with their dad, that she behaved as if she owned him.
‘Never mind, Tim old thing,’ said Rosie, ‘it won’t last, and the reason why it’s happening is because for years Eloise hasn’t had a father or even known there was one around. Think how lucky you and I have been, we’ve had Boots to ourselves for years and years. We can put up with Eloise making claims on him now, can’t we?’
‘Yes, but it’s “let’s go to the park” or “let’s go out” all the time,’ said Tim, ‘and it’s just said to Dad and it only ever means her and Dad.’
‘And what does Dad do?’ asked Rosie.
‘Oh, he says, “Good idea, let’s all go.”’ Tim grinned at what that meant. It meant his dad played fair and square.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘You see, Tim, no-one’s ever going to own all of Boots. Well, no-one should ever completely own any of us. But there are weak men and women who let it happen, who become dominated by one particular person. Heavens, Tim, that must be like being dead. A sense of belonging is much the best thing, old lad, not possessiveness or being possessed. That’s very special, a sense of belonging to the ones we most want to belong to. For us, for you and me, it’s belonging to Boots and Emily, and the rest of our family.’
‘I suppose you know you’ve got into the habit of saying Boots and Emily instead of Mum and Dad, do you?’ said Tim.
‘Have I?’ Rosie smiled. ‘Oh, well, I’m probably allowing university to make me precocious. Nana will have something to say to me when she realizes it.’
‘Funny she never minds anyone in the family calling her Chinese Lady,’ said Tim.
‘Oh, that goes back years and years, Tim, to when your dad, your uncles and your Aunt Lizzy were all precocious themselves. Precocious kids.’ Rosie laughed. ‘Can you see your dad as a kid?’
‘Can you?’ asked Tim.
‘No, only as the lovely kind man I first knew as a child,’ said Rosie, ‘when I first wanted to belong to him. So we must be nice to Eloise because she spent seventeen whole years without knowing she belonged to him at all.’
‘Rosie, you’re the best girl ever,’ said Tim, ‘and no feller could have a nicer sister.’
‘Well, you’re not so bad yourself, are you, old lad?’ said Rosie, and lightly ruffled his hair. ‘Shout if you ever need help. I’ll hear you, because I’ll always be somewhere around.’
‘Good on you, Rosie,’ said Tim.
The following morning, Saturday, saw sunshine and the disappearance of all traces of snow. But some people who’d put their winter woollies back on weren’t sure about leaving them off again. This problem didn’t bother a certain Lilian Hyams, for she never wore such things. A fashion designer in the exclusive employ of Adams fashions, Lilian was now living in her own little house, two up, two down, in King and Queen Street, Walworth. By reason of Sammy Adams’s generous monetary appreciation of her talents, Lilian had become almost affluent. Well, affluent enough to buy the house, which Sammy had found for her. It was close to East Street market, and she liked the markets of London, as most of her kind did. A war widow, her husband having been killed on the Somme, Lilian at thirty-nine had left her years of mourning and privation far behind to bloom into a lush-looking, healthy brunette with velvety brown eyes that sometimes reminded Sammy of Rachel Goodman’s lustrous orbs. Lilian had recently attracted the admiration and attention of Abel Morrison, owner of a shop in the market. Since Mr Morrison was decidedly portly and accordingly a strain on his waistcoats, Lilian did her best to keep her distance. The bloke was kind enough, but Lilian, while owning a fulsome figure herself, had no real liking for surplus flesh on men. If she could have had anybody, it would have been Sammy Adams who, in her eyes, was the most electrifying man in the rag trade. Unfortunately, Sammy was the doting husband of his wife Susie. Otherwise, for the pleasure of being his wife herself, Lilian would have willingly converted to the Christian faith. Ah, well, from around some corner somewhere, someday, there might appear a lovely bloke akin to Sammy. Mind, at her age, she didn’t want to wait too long.
Coming out of her house to begin her journey to the Adams factory in Shoreditch, she bumped into the milkman. Well, there he was, right on her doorstep, in his white working-coat and peaked cap.
‘Hello, hello,’ he said, retreating from her private person, ‘what’s all the hurry, then, missus?’
‘Are you a policeman?’ asked Lilian.
‘No, your new milkman,’ said Bill Chambers.
‘Then what d’you mean by addressing me like a bobby?’ asked Lilian, looking him over. He was an improvement, physically, on the previous milkman, Ernie, who was something of an old codger.
‘I’m Bill, not Bobby, missus, and I’ve been deliverin’ your milk all this week. Old Ernie’s gone to his rest.’
‘My life, he’s dead?’ said Lilian.
‘Old Ernie?’ said Bill. ‘Not him. Last for ever, he will. No, he’s retired.’
‘I should be bamboozled by having you tell me he’s gone to his rest as if he’d passed away?’ said Lilian.
‘No, he’s gone to live with his widowed sister in her country cottage by Chislehurst,’ said Bill, healthy-looking and muscular. ‘She’ll see to his feet.’
‘His feet?’ said Lilian.
‘Well, you could say it’s his feet that have gone to their rest,’ sa
id Bill informatively. ‘After treading these here pavements for forty year and more, they’ve earned it, and his sister’ll see they get it, and find him a cosy pair of slippers into the bargain, I shouldn’t wonder. I’ve taken over his round. I’ve been fortuitously promoted.’
‘You’ve been what?’ said Lilian.
‘It’s a fact, missus, seeing my previous round was near the Elephant and Castle. Any round near there puts a bloke in danger of being run over six times a day.’
‘Six?’ said Lilian. ‘But wouldn’t once be enough?’
‘Beg yer pardon?’ said Bill.
‘Run over once, wouldn’t that be enough for anybody?’ asked Lilian.
A grin appeared on the new milkman’s face and he took a more interested look at his customer. Lilian allowed the survey. He then referred to his customers’ book.
‘You’re Mrs Hyams?’ he said.
‘I am,’ said Lilian.
‘Might I say I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Hyams?’
‘Might I ask why it’s pleasing?’
‘Search me,’ said Bill, ‘except it’s just a sudden feeling that’s taken up residence.’
‘Are you always like this?’ asked Lilian, who hadn’t met many milkmen quite as vocal as he was.
‘Like what, lady?’
‘Talkative,’ said Lilian.
‘Only since I was born,’ said Bill. ‘Well, accordin’ to my old lady, I came into the world with my mouth open and asking where Paddington railway station was. Well, some do, some don’t, y’know. Might I ask if you’re goin’ out, seeing you’ve got your coat and titfer on?’
‘Yes, I’m going to my job,’ said Lilian.
‘I’m holdin’ you up,’ said Bill. ‘Well, there’s your milk, on your step. Any eggs?’
‘Eggs?’ said Lilian.
‘New-laid, fresh from the dairy’s country farm in Hampstead, and now available to all our customers,’ said Bill.
‘Not today, thank you,’ said Lilian.
‘Well, just leave a note in one of the empties any time you’re thinking of makin’ an egg custard,’ said Bill. ‘I’ll be round again this afternoon to collect what’s owing on your bill, seeing it’s a Saturday. Won’t keep you now. Good day to you, Mrs Hyams, it’s been promising to have had the pleasure of meetin’ you personally.’
The Camberwell Raid Page 2