The Camberwell Raid

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Bloody hell, I know Milly lost hers,’ said Mr Tooley.

  ‘However,’ said Major Armitage, ‘you must believe me when I tell you I hadn’t the remotest idea I’d left your daughter pregnant. I was posted to France with my regiment before August was over, and have to admit I gave no thought to my brief time with her, which was just a matter of a few hours at an early wartime party. I’m sorry, of course, at the way things turned out for her.’

  ‘Hold on, mister, if you didn’t know you’d left Milly expecting, what’s brought you ’ere now?’ asked Mr Tooley.

  ‘A friend of mine, a lady who was giving parties daily in her house during the first days of the war, has only just acquainted me with details of the consequences. It was in her house, I’m afraid, that I—’

  ‘Seduced Milly,’ said Mr Tooley.

  ‘I’m not here to deny it,’ said Major Armitage.

  ‘What galled me as much as anything was that Milly didn’t even know your name,’ said Mr Tooley. ‘Or if she did, she couldn’t remember it. Not a nice thing, that, Mr Armitage, a father being told by ’is daughter that she was going to ’ave a baby by a man whose name had passed her by. But it’s over and done with now, so what’s brought you here? An idea you ought to say sorry to Milly?’

  ‘I imagine too many years have gone by for that idea to be much good,’ said Major Armitage. ‘Can you tell me what the girl is like?’

  ‘Rosie?’

  ‘That’s her name, Rosie?’

  ‘Baptised Rose, but always called Rosie,’ said Mr Tooley, ‘and I can tell you she’s a fine young lady. More, she’s clever too, she’s at Oxford.’

  ‘Oxford?’ Major Armitage looked astonished. ‘Oxford University?’

  ‘Sure as I’m sitting here in me own kitchen,’ said Mr Tooley. ‘Mr Armitage, it’s a regretful thing, y’know, a man by reason of being casual missing out the years he could’ve spent with a daughter like Rosie. Still, if you can be blamed for what you did with Milly, you can’t be blamed for what you didn’t know about.’

  ‘Mr Tooley, this is actually true, my daughter Rosie is an undergraduate at Oxford University?’

  ‘Some place there called Somerville,’ said Mr Tooley. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t see you as ’er father, just as a gent that played a casual part in the making of her as a babe. Nor would she see you as her father. She’s got a fam’ly, Mr Armitage, one that’s given ’er everything she’s ever wanted, mostly a special kind of affection.’

  ‘A family? Do you mean her mother and a man we could say was her stepfather?’ said Major Armitage.

  ‘Milly and ’er husband, you mean?’ said Mr Tooley. ‘Milly never wanted ’er. Understandable in a way, but no credit to her. No, Rosie was adopted years ago. Best thing of her life, that was.’ Mr Tooley looked at his kitchen clock. Twenty minutes to eight. ‘I suppose it was natural, you coming here out of interest, but you can take it from me you don’t ’ave to worry about Rosie. She’s a young lady that’s always been happy right from the day she was given a new home at the age of five.’

  ‘I appreciate all you’ve said, Mr Tooley, but the fact remains I am her father, and I’d like to see her.’

  ‘Mr Armitage, you’re years too late. You fathered ’er, yes, I grant that, but to Rosie there’s only one man she’ll ever want as her father, and that’s the man who took ’er in when her mother deserted her, and then adopted ’er.’

  ‘Who is he and what does he do?’ asked Major Armitage.

  ‘He’s a natural-born gent name of Adams, with a business,’ said Mr Tooley, ‘and that’s about as far as you and me can go about all this. I appreciate ’ow you feel now you’ve found out you fathered Rosie, but it’s best to leave it as it stands, Mr Armitage. Now I’ve got to get ready to go out.’

  ‘Do you have a photograph of Rosie, Mr Tooley?’

  ‘I’ve got snaps by the dozen, being ’er grandfather, but they’re private. Like I said, best if you stay out of ’er life after all these years. I’ll see you to me street door.’

  Major Armitage did not argue, nor did he show the extent of his feelings. He allowed Mr Tooley to show him out. He thanked him for his time, shook hands with him and said goodbye.

  However, when Mr Tooley left the house a few minutes later, Major Armitage was still in the vicinity, and once Rosie’s grandfather had disappeared into the darkness of the March night, he returned to the front door. He had taken note of its latchcord. He pulled it, the door opened, and he went in. He was very quiet in his closing of the door. He was a man with a fine war record, and he owned reasonable principles, but such was his interest and his excitement, he had few qualms about stretching them. Using the light of struck matches, it did not take him long to locate a drawer in the parlour cabinet that contained a photograph album. He took the album into the kitchen, where the gas mantle was turned low. He turned it up, all his movements quiet. He could hear a few sounds from upstairs. In the album were pasted snapshots of a girl from her very young years to what was obviously the present.

  Absorbed, he turned the pages, noting that as a girl child, fair of hair, she looked sweet. As a growing girl, delicious. As a young lady, no less than quite lovely. In some of the snaps, there were other people, children and adults. Which of the men and women were her adoptive parents, he did not know, but he did observe that the women had style, the men an air of self-assurance. In one of two of the later snaps, Rosie looked positively striking, her clothes faultless.

  ‘Ye gods,’ he murmured, ‘she’s an Armitage to the life.’ He was ready to swear she resembled his younger sister to a startling degree.

  When he was ready to leave, he had with him one snapshot that had come adrift from its page, and which he thought showed her to be about seventeen. She would be nineteen now, and twenty sometime this year. And she was at Somerville, the women’s college in Oxford. And the name of her adoptive father was Adams. She would have taken that name.

  Oxford had to be his next step. At Somerville College, he would make discreet enquiries. No wait, the students would be on Easter vacation now.

  He returned to the parlour, struck matches, and examined a particular drawer again, moving the album aside. He found a letter, written and signed by Rosie. It gave her home address. He memorized it and put the letter back.

  He left the house as quietly as he had entered it.

  Mr Tooley, who had walked to the pub in a slightly perturbed state, put the man Armitage out of his mind once he was in cosy company with Ada. They chatted like friends who had known each other for years. Ada’s milk stout did its work, increasing her habitual jolly approach to a sociable atmosphere. Mr Tooley suggested a woman like she was shouldn’t live alone, she was made for being good company to a bloke.

  ‘Which bloke?’ said Ada.

  Mr Tooley said there were blokes and blokes. Too right, said Ada. Mr Tooley then asked if she’d recently thought about getting married.

  ‘Me at my age?’ said Ada, laughing into her milk stout.

  Mr Tooley assured her she was the right age for some men.

  ‘Some? ’Ow many?’ asked Ada. ‘More than one’s not legal, I’ll ’ave you know, Albert.’

  ‘There’s one bloke I’ve got in mind,’ said Mr Tooley, ‘and he’d make it legal.’

  ‘Which one’s that?’ asked Ada.

  ‘Yours truly,’ said Mr Tooley.

  ‘Bless me soul, you ain’t proposin’, are yer, Albert?’

  ‘Well, yes, I am, Ada, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Lord Above!’ said Ada, ‘And ’ere’s me been thinking for months that you’d never ask.’

  ‘Ada, ’ave another milk stout,’ said Mr Tooley.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do, seein’ you’re goin’ to church me, Albert,’ said Ada, her buxom self mellow all over.

  That’s one thing the Armitage toff didn’t do, said Mr Tooley to himself, he didn’t church Milly. Well, now that I come to think, I’m ruddy glad he didn’t. Boots, who’s al
ways been a friend to me, deserves Rosie more than her natural father does.

  Ongoing March, acknowledging the approach of April, gradually became bright with sunshine, and several daffodils raised their heads in Browning Street Gardens and Kennington Park to look around in suspicion of frost or snow. There was none of either, so they burst into golden yellow.

  Miss Polly Simms, taking advantage of the academic lull following end-of-term exams, negotiated a day off from her teaching post at West Square Girls School to join Rosie and Eloise in a carefree trip to London Town. Eloise had been to the West End before, in company with Boots and Emily, but was still delighted to have Rosie and Polly show her the facades of famous theatres and their billboards, and take her in and out of shops. Polly’s pleasure came mainly from her strongly established friendship with Rosie, her favourite person after Boots. They gave themselves a leisurely hour or so for lunch, choosing that well-patronized and handsome restaurant, the Edwardian Trocadero, in the pulsing heart of the West End. Before the menus were brought to them, Eloise excused herself to powder her nose, which gave Polly the chance to ask Rosie for the latest news on developments at home.

  ‘Developments?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Regarding Eloise’s attitude now that she’s been with you for three months,’ said Polly.

  ‘You could say the attachment is strengthening day by day,’ smiled Rosie.

  ‘Her attachment to all of you generally?’ said Polly.

  ‘To all of us generally, and to her new-found father in particular,’ said Rosie.

  The menus arrived, and one was left for Eloise.

  ‘Inevitable, I suppose, that she favours Boots,’ said Polly.

  ‘Oh, she’s really quite sweet,’ said Rosie, ‘although she’d monopolize him, if she could. But he’s too sensible to allow that.’

  ‘Well, Rosie my sweet, I really wouldn’t want anything to break up the special relationship you and Boots enjoy,’ said Polly. ‘You two go together like mustard and cress, like Adam and – let’s see, ducky, who was Adam’s first and most cherished daughter?’

  ‘God knows, but I don’t,’ said Rosie, which brought forth Polly’s quick brittle laugh. ‘And isn’t it Adam and his wife Eve who go together like mustard and cress?’

  ‘If you say so,’ murmured Polly, hoping Rosie didn’t mean Boots and Emily.

  ‘Special relationships are sacred, of course,’ said Rosie. And she smiled at Polly, well aware that this vivacious and endearing woman considered her own relationship with Boots to be distinctly special and closely guarded.

  Mr Tooley thought about calling Boots from a public phone box to let him know Rosie’s natural father had turned up out of the blue. But he decided against. After all, the bloke had departed in as civilized a way as you’d expect of a gent, accepting the advice that the best thing was to go back to being anonymous. Yes, that was the word, anonymous. Mr Tooley couldn’t ever remember Rosie asking who her father was, and he didn’t think she’d ever asked Boots any inquisitive questions about him. Not that Boots could have answered them. Mr Tooley knew he had told her how she came about, and he’d done that when she was of an age to understand and not to brood about it. And the fact was, Rosie never showed the slightest interest in either her natural mother or the man who had fathered her. She lived for her adoptive family, and always had from the time they took her in. Even at five, when she first came to know Boots, he was the one she saw as a coveted father figure.

  No point really in phoning Boots, no point in mentioning something that might stir things up, not when the natural father had accepted the situation. Anyway, perhaps Boots and Emily would come with Rosie to his wedding with Ada in due course. He might just have a quiet word with Boots then.

  ‘We’ll have to do three or four practice runs,’ said Ginger Carstairs that afternoon.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ said Dusty Miller.

  ‘We need to arrive at the station just before the train’s due,’ said Carstairs, ‘it’s not going to be too clever if we have to hang about on the platform getting noticed, and it’ll make me cross if we get there too late and miss it.’

  ‘Point is, we can’t advance the time that we do the bank,’ said Miller.

  ‘No, we can’t,’ agreed Ginger Carstairs, ‘it’s got to be just before the bank shuts to avoid inconvenient interruptions. I’ve decided we’ve got to give the main road a miss, and come out on Denmark Hill by way of back streets. Too much traffic on the main road. Buses, trams, lorries, carts and God knows what else. That’s what made us five minutes late on our first practice run. We’d have missed the train. We’ll begin the new practice run not later than six minutes after three-thirty tomorrow, since we don’t plan to hang about in the bank. I’ve got the new route worked out, and just to make sure how long it takes us on average, we’ll do a couple of other runs before our collecting day. Who’s that?’

  The street door had resounded to a double knock.

  ‘Well, a double knock’s for upstairs,’ said Miller. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Leave it,’ said Carstairs.

  ‘No, my landlady’s in, and if I don’t answer it, she will,’ said Miller. ‘She knows I’m up here.’ Down he went and found the milkman on the doorstep.

  ‘Caught you,’ said Bill Chambers amiably. He was on his afternoon round. ‘You were out Saturday, so mind if I collect the owings now?’

  ‘How much, mate?’

  ‘A bob, Mr Barnes,’ said Bill.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Miller, who was calling himself Barnes for the time being. He paid up. Bill recorded the payment in his book.

  ‘Any eggs?’ he said.

  ‘Do I look like a chicken?’ said Miller, and closed the door. Not in the least upset, Bill returned to his float. Then something struck him.

  The bloke Barnes was another customer who didn’t have milk every day. Well, he wouldn’t, would he, being single. So what about that comely Mrs Hyams? All she had for herself and Mr Hyams was four pints a week, which wasn’t usual for a married couple. A pint a day was what most couples ordered, and more, of course, if there were kids, and there were plenty of kids in Walworth. Very prolific, many Walworth married couples were, as if a lot of kids made up for a lack of other possessions. Well, no-one could say the lively kids of Walworth were a liability. Not that they were always dear to their mums and dads. Bill had heard angry mums and bawling dads threatening to drown their offspring. Still, when they grew up and got jobs they contributed their whack to the housekeeping, which was a mellowing thing to most mums and dads. I might have had some kids myself if Dorothy hadn’t taken all of ten years to hold me off. I think she was keeping me in reserve.

  Anyway, on account of Mrs Hyams only using four pints of milk a week, she couldn’t have any of her children living at home. Four pints, in fact, would hardly be enough for herself and Mr Hyams, and she certainly couldn’t make much custard or rice puddings. Perhaps they used some condensed milk here and there. I’ll have to sell her off that stuff, thought Bill, and persuade her to order extra pints of our fresh cows’ milk. Not that she doesn’t look a healthy woman. Never saw a healthier. Wonder if she’s synagogue? Well, I don’t think Hyams is a good old Anglo-Saxon monicker. Makes no difference, though, she’s still the best-looker on my round.

  Bill led his horse and float around a standing blue van painted with the sign ‘Joseph Roberts, Family Baker’, and went whistling on his way.

  Miller, meanwhile, having rejoined Carstairs, suggested it hadn’t been a very good idea to have left the van outside. Carstairs said it wouldn’t be there above a minute more, and in any case people didn’t notice bakers’ vans. People were just lumps of dough who could walk and talk. All the same, said Miller, a pro wouldn’t have left the van there. Carstairs gave him a stony look.

  ‘Well, Charles?’ said Cecily over the phone.

  ‘What are you ringing about?’ asked Major Armitage from his country pile.

  ‘I’m simply curious to know if y
ou’ve been making enquiries,’ said Cecily.

  ‘In short, yes.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘It’s a girl,’ said Major Armitage.

  ‘You have a daughter, old thing?’

  ‘Yes, and an astonishing one. She’s a student at Somerville College, Oxford.’

  ‘Heavens,’ said Cecily, ‘not a Deptford cockney?’

  ‘Far from it, I fancy,’ said Major Armitage, and recounted the more relevant details of his conversation with the girl’s grandfather, a Mr Tooley. Cecily ventured to say that adoption meant the claim of the natural father had no standing in law. Major Armitage said he’d contest that, for he’d signed no papers himself. Cecily suggested that before he began any legal contest, he should first find out how the girl would react.

  ‘I mean, is she going to jump for joy at the prospect of leaving her adoptive parents for a new life with you?’

  ‘I intend to visit the family and to meet her, and to take it from there,’ said Major Armitage.

  ‘And if the family and she herself oppose your wishes?’

  ‘I mean to fight,’ said Major Armitage. ‘The adoptive parents have had their time with her. Now I need to have mine.’

  ‘She’s of a marriageable age, Charles, and you may not have her for longer than a year.’

  ‘I don’t see it like that. She’s an Armitage, certainly in looks and probably in character. Frankly, I’ve very little idea of what her mother looked like, but I take your word for it that she was pretty. However, having seen so many snapshots of Rosie herself, I’d say she was positively an Armitage. She belongs far more to me than to her mother or her adoptive parents. I’ve consulted my solicitor, but he’s a glum old pessimist, and thinks, in fact, that counsel will advise me I’ve no case.’