The Camberwell Raid

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Divorce her, you idiot,’ said Cecily.

  Major Armitage, a handsome man of forty-three with a well-trimmed military moustache, looked her in the eye.

  ‘And marry you?’ he said.

  ‘You could do a lot worse, ducky,’ said Cecily, forty-two.

  ‘I daresay,’ said Major Armitage, ‘but I can’t dump Pauline, you know that.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Cecily.

  ‘I’ve an estate, an alcoholic wife and what else? Very little. No children, and a dissolute younger brother who’s waiting for me to kick the bucket so that he can inherit. But I still can’t divorce Pauline. She’d end up as a down-and-out. God, if only she’d given me a child before she took to the bottle, I’d have something worthwhile to live for.’

  ‘You’ve said that before,’ murmured Cecily.

  ‘Well, it’s true, damn it,’ said Major Armitage.

  ‘Cheer up, ducky, at least you came out of the war all in one piece,’ said Cecily.

  ‘Oh, I’m thankful for that, believe me,’ he said, ‘but my life at the moment is damned empty.’

  Something reached the tip of Cecily’s tongue, but it stayed there, unspoken. She was unsure whether or not it would do any good. She had kept it from him for years. Wisely, she thought.

  He left then, kissing her warmly for old times sake, and although she was a woman disinclined to take anything too seriously, she let her thoughts linger on a certain event for quite a while after he had gone.

  Two hours later, when she knew he’d be home, she telephoned him and asked him to come up and see her tomorrow afternoon, Sunday. He asked why.

  ‘I’ve something of interest to tell you,’ she said.

  ‘Tell me now,’ he said.

  ‘Not over the phone. Here, tomorrow afternoon. It really is something of interest to you, very personal interest.’

  ‘Not about divorcing Pauline, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Far from it,’ said Cecily. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Drunk,’ said Major Armitage.

  ‘Rotten bad luck, old thing. You’ll come tomorrow?’

  ‘Very well,’ he said.

  ‘Gird yourself,’ she said.

  She had made up her mind to tell him, particularly as she had found an old slip of paper among some ancient miscellanea in a bureau drawer.

  That evening Freddy called for Cassie to take her to a cinema up West. Cassie said it was a bit expensive, a West End cinema, and Freddy said well, yes, it was, but she deserved a bit of expensiveness now and again, seeing she was engaged to marry him. Cassie said she was overjoyed to know he appreciated how lucky he was. Freddy said luck like that was easy to live with.

  At the Walworth Road bus stop they met Lilian Hyams. Cassie introduced the stylish woman to Freddy, letting him know she was Sammy Adams’s fashion designer, and the lady who was making the wedding gowns for herself and Sally.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Freddy, shaking hands with Lilian.

  ‘Pleasure for me too, meeting Cassie’s fiancé,’ said Lilian, and eyed him in approval. Freddy, now in his twenty-first year, was a decidedly manly-looking bloke, with an air of typical Walworth cheerfulness. ‘Oh, the little alterations to both gowns have been done, Cassie. When would you like me to give you the final fitting?’

  ‘Can you come round tomorrow afternoon?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘I’m giving Sally her final fitting tomorrow morning, so should I say no to tomorrow afternoon for you when I can say yes?’ smiled Lilian.

  ‘Then you can stay to tea,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Well, that’s nice of you, Cassie,’ said Lilian.

  ‘You goin’ up West now?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘Yes, treating myself to a seat at the Alhambra,’ said Lilian. ‘Gracie Fields is the star turn tonight.’

  ‘We’re goin’ to the Empire cinema to see a film,’ said Cassie, thinking what a shame it was that such a fine-looking woman as Mrs Hyams didn’t have an escort. The bus for the West End pulled up then, and she and Freddy parted company with Lilian, who preferred the lower deck while they went upstairs. When they were seated, Cassie said, ‘Freddy, d’you know a nice bloke that would suit Mrs Hyams?’

  ‘Well, there’s me,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Don’t go off your rocker,’ said Cassie.

  ‘All right, how about Mr Richards, the widower bloke that lodges next door to me?’ suggested Freddy.

  ‘Him? But he must be nearly seventy,’ said Cassie. ‘Freddy, you’re barmy.’

  ‘We’re all a bit that way, y’know, Cassie,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Yes, Boots always says everyone is,’ said Cassie, ‘so I suppose whoever I married would be fairly dotty. Still, I think I’ll be able to manage.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about that,’ said Freddy, ‘I’ll be doin’ the managing.’

  ‘Wishful thinking more like,’ said Cassie.

  They enjoyed a lovely evening at the cinema, and she was thoughtful on the bus going home.

  ‘What’re you thinking about?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘Us,’ said Cassie.

  ‘What for?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘I like thinking about us more than about things like dustbins or fish markets, don’t I?’ said Cassie reasonably. ‘Freddy, it’s not long to the weddin’ now, so I want you to make sure you take care where you’re walkin’ and what you’re doin’. You’re not to fall off a kerb or walk under ladders, and you’re not to catch something like tonsilitis or flu. I don’t want you not turning up at the church because you’ve been careless.’

  ‘Well, Cassie, if I didn’t ’ave to go to me daily work I could stay careful in bed from now to the weddin’,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Freddy, I don’t think much of that as a sensible answer,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Cassie,’ said Freddy, ‘I’ll get to the church, even if I break both me legs fallin’ off a kerb.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d like that, wouldn’t I, you turning up with two broken legs,’ said Cassie. ‘I want you there all in one piece.’

  ‘That’s me own lifelong wish, Cassie, to be all in one piece on me weddin’ day,’ said Freddy. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘I mean, what’s goin’ to ’appen in private later if I’m not?’

  ‘I can’t hardly wait to find out, can I?’ said Cassie, and a little giggle escaped.

  Alighting eventually from the bus, they began their walk to Cassie’s home via East Street. A middle-aged couple approached, bawling at each other.

  ‘I just dunno why I ever married you, Joe Turner, you been dozy all yer life,’ yelled the woman.

  ‘Could I ’elp it that me belt broke?’ hollered the man.

  ‘You could’ve ’eld yer trousers up, couldn’t yer, instead of lettin’ ’em fall down in front of people right outside the fried fish shop. Disgracin’ me like that, wait till I get you ’ome.’

  ‘I pulled ’em up, didn’t I? And I’m ’olding them up now, ain’t I?’ The man nearly collided with Freddy. Freddy did a quick shuffle, the man did a lurching one, the clash was avoided, and Freddy went on with Cassie. A female bellow followed them.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done, the pair of yer, made ’is bleedin’ trousers fall down again!’

  ‘Oh, I’ll fall over,’ gasped Cassie, having hysterics.

  ‘Not now, wait till after the wedding,’ said Freddy.

  ‘All right,’ said Cassie, ‘but ain’t life a dream, Freddy?’

  ‘So are you,’ said Freddy.

  Over breakfast the following morning, Mrs Susie Adams regarded her three children, Daniel, Bess and Jimmy, thoughtfully. She was expecting her fourth. Sammy noted her look.

  ‘Penny for ’em, Susie,’ he said.

  ‘A hundred and sixty, that’s what I’m thinking about,’ she said.

  ‘I’m hearin’ things,’ said Sammy.

  ‘What things, Dad?’ asked Daniel, eight.

  ‘Things I don’t believe,’ said Sammy.

  ‘What things is them, Daddy?’ as
ked Bess, six.

  ‘Search me,’ said Sammy.

  ‘I’m speakin’, Sammy Adams, of a hundred and sixty guests at the double weddin’,’ said Susie.

  ‘Is that a fact, Susie,’ said Sammy. ‘Well, I’ve never been more relieved in all me life.’

  ‘And everyone sittin’ down,’ said Susie. ‘Have they got a hundred and sixty chairs at St John’s Institute?’

  ‘I’ll phone the vicar and ask,’ said Sammy.

  ‘I don’t ever remember there being as many as that,’ said Susie. ‘Bess, stop makin’ a sandcastle of your porridge. Sammy, have you thought about wearin’ a top-hat?’

  ‘I can truthfully say no,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Sammy, you’d look ever so distinguished in a top-hat,’ said Susie.

  ‘Wasser top-hat?’ asked four-year-old Jimmy.

  ‘Something I’m not goin’ to wear,’ said Sammy.

  ‘It’s what the King puts on his head sometimes,’ said Bess.

  ‘Fortunately, I’m not the King,’ said Sammy, ‘just a simple bloke born and bred in Walworth, where they chuck things at top-hats.’

  ‘What things, Dad?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Bricks,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Bricks is nasty,’ said Bess. ‘Well, I fink they are.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, plum pudding,’ said Sammy, ‘no one’s goin’ to chuck bricks at any top-hat I won’t be wearin’.’

  ‘There’s a nice man’s shop in Regent Street,’ said Susie, ‘we can buy one there.’

  ‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Dad,’ said Daniel helpfully, ‘Mum said there’s a nice man’s shop in Regent Street where you can buy one.’

  ‘I didn’t hear that, either,’ said Sammy. ‘Anyway, sunshine, let your mum know you have to wear tails with a topper, and I don’t have tails.’

  ‘We can buy those as well,’ said Susie.

  ‘Any more funny stories?’ said Sammy.

  ‘You’ll look lovely in tails and topper, Sammy,’ said Susie, with her family tucking into their usual Sunday breakfast of fried eggs and bacon.

  ‘I’ve gone deaf again,’ said Sammy. ‘D’you get me, Susie?’

  ‘Yes, I get you, Sammy love,’ said Susie, ‘you’ve gone deaf again.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sammy, ‘subject closed, then.’

  Susie smiled.

  Boots drove his family to church. He dropped Emily, Tim and Rosie off a little early at the Denmark Hill church, and then took Eloise to the Roman Catholic shrine for Mass. Eloise offered her cheek to him for a kiss before she got out of the car. Boots obliged.

  ‘Papa, I like you very much,’ she said.

  ‘And you’re really happy living with us?’ smiled Boots.

  ‘Oh, yes. But more with you. You are such a nice man.’

  ‘I’ll tell your stepmother that,’ said Boots, ‘it may have escaped her.’

  ‘Of course not, Papa, ’ow could it?’ said Eloise, and laughed as she alighted. She really was happy with her new-found family, liking Tim, Emily and the grandparents, while just a little in awe of Rosie because of her striking looks and her very English air of composure, which she thought aristocratic. She was also just a little jealous, because not only was it obvious the whole family had a particular affection for Rosie, there was also something special between her and her father. How can that be, Eloise often asked herself, when she is only his adopted daughter?

  Kind Mr Abel Morrison, willing to be a comforting figure in the lonely life of Mrs Lilian Hyams, was at her house at two-thirty precisely. The widow, alas, was not at home.

  ‘Dear, dear,’ he murmured, when there was no reply to any of his knocks, ‘she’s forgotten I promised to call.’

  Not at all. Lilian, taking heed of his intentions, had departed for Cassie’s home with the boxed wedding gown at two-twenty, and thus escaped him.

  Major Armitage arrived at the Maida Vale house at three-fifteen, having travelled up in his car. He was admitted into Cecily’s drawing-room by her housekeeper, and as soon as they were alone he said, ‘Now, what’s your game, old girl?’

  ‘It’s no game, old boy, it’s something I’ve decided you should know,’ said Cecily, and proceeded to acquaint him with details. She referred to one of the early wartime parties she had given during August, 1914, just after the outbreak of hostilities. He had arrived in company with other officers and some excited girls they had picked up in the West End. He was a lieutenant then, and waiting for orders.

  ‘I remember,’ he said, ‘but I can’t think you can tell me anything about one more pre-embarkation party that could be called important now.’

  ‘You disappeared with one of the girls,’ said Cecily.

  Major Armitage furrowed his broad brow.

  ‘Did I?’ he said. The furrow smoothed itself out and a little smile arrived. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Pretty but brainless, and slightly drunk,’ said Cecily.

  ‘I don’t suppose that at that particular time I was interested in whether a girl was intellectual or not, or how much drink any of us had had.’

  ‘I’m sure you weren’t,’ said Cecily, ‘but I have to tell you she came back to the house in October. Agitated. And pregnant.’

  ‘What?’ said Major Armitage.

  ‘She swore she had never been to bed with any man except you. Not that she remembered your name. I made the mistake of saying I remembered her disappearing with one of the lieutenants, and she said yes, it was one of them all right, and that he was the first and only man she’d made love with. She told him so at the time, even if she was a bit squiffy, she said. Now she was going to have his baby, she complained, so what was he going to do about it?’

  ‘Good God,’ said Major Armitage.

  ‘She asked if I could get in touch with him and let him know, because he ought to do right by her as an officer and gentleman. I think she actually said officer and gent. I said I didn’t know your name, that a lot of officers were coming and going casually at the time, treating my place as open house. Well, I decided I had to protect you, Charles old thing. She simply wasn’t your type, believe me. Of course, I said I’d make enquiries, so she wrote her name and address on a slip of paper and gave it to me. I put it somewhere and let it go at that.’

  ‘Cecily, that was all you did for her?’ asked Major Armitage.

  ‘You think I should have done more?’ said Cecily. ‘What, exactly? Given her your name and the name of your regiment? What would you have done if she’d written to tell you she was expecting your baby? Married her? Of course you wouldn’t. She came from Deptford, but tried to sound as if she was some kind of superior shop assistant. She made a terrible mess of it.’

  ‘I’d have at least tried to find some way of helping her,’ said Major Armitage.

  ‘Oh, I think she’d have accepted money, if you’d offered enough,’ said Cecily. ‘The point is, Charles, you’re in need of a son or daughter, and out there somewhere you have one. God knows how he or she has been raised, but what you could offer as the father would be irresistible.’

  ‘Ye gods,’ said Major Armitage, ‘are you serious, Cecily?’

  ‘I thought you were, about having a son or daughter to make your life less empty,’ said Cecily. ‘I thought hard as to whether or not I should tell you, and since you were so down in the dumps yesterday, I decided I would. Either you’ve a son and heir or a daughter, and if there are some rough edges to one or the other, I don’t doubt you could arrange for them to be smoothed out, to turn a son into a gentleman or a daughter into a lady. Never mind the mother’s background, it’s your blood that counts.’

  ‘Damn it,’ said Major Armitage, ‘there’s the mother to consider, and a stepfather, probably.’

  ‘My dear man,’ said Cecily, ‘we’re dealing, aren’t we, with someone who’d be nineteen years old now, not a child needing a mother, or a stepfather.’

  ‘Did the girl ever come back again?’ asked Major Armitage.

  ‘No,
never,’ said Cecily. ‘Perhaps she found some man willing to take her on, and the child. If so, why not accept they’ll have their price and let you take over?’

  ‘That child, now a young man or a young woman, might refuse to be taken over,’ said Major Armitage. ‘At nineteen, how would you feel about some man turning up to make a father’s claim on you?’

  ‘Well, ducky, if my life until then had been in Deptford, and I were offered what you could offer, I’d feel delighted,’ said Cecily.

  ‘Would you? You’d be happy about being separated from your mother?’

  ‘At nineteen, would that seriously worry me?’ Cecily smiled. ‘I don’t think so, not if it meant going from rags to riches. Oh, I daresay the takeover would appeal more to you if the child were a tender six or seven, but all the same, it’s making you think, isn’t it?’

  ‘Can I be sure the child is mine?’

  ‘I had a quite certain feeling at the time that although the girl wasn’t exactly a lady, she was telling the truth about losing her virginity to you,’ said Cecily. ‘This is her name and address.’ She handed over a slip of paper, slightly brown with age. Major Armitage examined it. It gave a name and address, Millicent Tooley, 4 Warwick Street, Deptford.

  ‘I wonder, does she still live there?’ he said.

  ‘If you’re going to make enquiries, my dear, you’ll at least have to start from there, won’t you?’ said Cecily.

  ‘It’s absurd, Cecily.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Cecily. ‘The existence of a son or daughter? I think you’d give your right arm to have him or her home with you, wouldn’t you? It might even make Pauline chuck her bottles away and turn into a mother. So what d’you propose to do?’

  ‘Think about it,’ said Major Armitage.

  ‘Well, you can think about it over tea,’ said Cecily. ‘I’ll order a tray.’

  She rang for her housekeeper.

  In her bedroom the following morning, Lilian, up and dressed, was just about to go down when she heard the clink of milk bottles accompanied by a tuneful whistle. She looked through the window and saw the milk float outside the house next door. Down she went, and when she opened her front door there was the milkman himself on her step.