The Price of Love and Other Stories

by Peter Robinson

  One thing Tommy noticed within a few weeks of Uncle Arthur’s visits to the new house was that his father’s photograph—the one in full uniform his father was so proud of—went mysteriously missing from the mantelpiece. He asked his mother about it, but all she said was that it was time to move on and leave her widow’s weeds behind. Sometimes he thought he would never understand the things grown-ups said.

  When Tommy got back to his room at the boardinghouse, he took the badge out of his pocket and held it in his palm. Yes, he could feel his father’s power in it. Then he took out the creased newspaper cutting he always carried with him and read it for the hundredth time:

  POLICE CONSTABLE SHOT DEAD: BIGGEST HAUL SINCE THE GREAT TRAIN ROBBERY AUTHORITIES SAY

  A police constable accompanying a van carrying more than one million pounds was shot dead yesterday in a daring broad daylight raid on the A226 outside Swanscombe. PC Brian Burford was on special assignment at the time. The robbers fled the scene and police are interested in talking to anyone who might have seen a blue Vauxhall Victor in the general area that day. Since the Great Train Robbery on 8th August, 1963, police officers have routinely accompanied large amounts of cash….

  Tommy knew the whole thing off by heart, of course, about the police looking for five men and thinking it must have been an inside job, but he always read the end over and over again: “PC Burford leaves behind a wife and a young son.” Leaves behind. They made it sound as if it was his father’s fault, when he had just been doing his job. “ It is one of the saddest burdens of the badge of office to break the news that a police officer has been killed in the line of duty,’ said Deputy Chief Constable Graham Brown. ‘Thank God this burden remains such a rarity in our country.’”

  Tommy fingered his badge again. Burden of the badge of office. Well, he knew what that felt like now. He made sure no one was around and went to the toilet. There, he took some toilet paper, wet it under the tap and used it to clean off his badge, drying it carefully with a towel. There were still a few grains of sand caught in the pattern of lines that radiated outward, and it looked as if it was tarnished a bit around the edges. He decided that he needed some sort of wallet to keep it in, and he had enough pocket money to buy one. Uncle Arthur was still at the pier, and his mother was having a lie down, having “caught too much sun,” so he told her he was going for a walk and headed for the shops.

  Tommy went into first the gift shop he saw and found a plastic wallet just the right size. He could keep his badge safe in there, and when he opened it, people would be able to see it. That would be important if he had to make an arrest or take someone in for questioning. He counted out the coins and paid the shopkeeper, then he put the wallet in his back pocket and walked outside. The shop next door had racks of used paperback books outside. Uncle Arthur didn’t approve of used books—“Never know where they’ve been”—but Tommy didn’t care about that. He had become good at hiding things. He bought The Saint in New York, which he hadn’t read yet and had been looking for for ages.

  The sun was still shining, so Tommy crossed over to the broad promenade that ran beside the sands and the sea. There was a lot of traffic on the front, and he had to be careful. His mother would have gone spare if she had known he hadn’t looked for a zebra crossing but had dodged between the cars. Someone honked a horn at him. He thought of flashing his badge but decided against it. He would only use it when he really had to.

  He walked along the prom, letting his hand trail on the warm metal railing. He liked to watch the waves roll in and listen to them as they broke on the shore. There were still hundreds of people on the beach, some of them braving the sea, most just sitting in deck chairs, the men in shirtsleeves and braces reading newspapers, knotted hankies covering their heads, the women sleeping, wearing floppy hats with the brims shading their faces. Children screamed and jumped, made elaborate sandcastles. A humpbacked man led the donkeys slowly along their marked track, excited riders whooping as they rode, pretending to be cowboys.

  Then Tommy saw Uncle Arthur on the prom and froze.

  He was wearing his dark blue trousers and matching blazer with the gold buttons, a small straw hat perched on his head. He needed a haircut, Tommy thought, looking at where the strands of dark hair curled out from under the straw. It wasn’t as if he was young enough to wear his hair long like the Beatles. He was probably at least as old as Tommy’s mother. As Uncle Arthur walked along with the crowds, he looked around furtively, licking his lips from time to time, and Tommy hardly even needed the magic of his badge to know that he was up to something. Tommy leaned over the railings and looked out to sea, where a distant tanker trailed smoke, and waited until Uncle Arthur had passed by. As he did so, he slipped his hand into his pocket and fingered the wallet that held his badge, feeling its power.

  He could see Uncle Arthur’s straw hat easily enough as he followed him through the crowds along the prom away from the Central Pier. Luckily, there were plenty of people walking in both directions, and there was no way Uncle Arthur could spot Tommy, even if he turned around suddenly. It was as if the badge had given him even extra power to be invisible.

  Shortly before Chapel Street, Uncle Arthur checked the traffic and dashed across the road. Tommy was near some lights, and luckily they turned red, so he was able to keep up. There were just as many people on the other side because of all the shops and bingo halls and amusement arcades, so it was easy to slip unseen into the crowds again.

  The problems started when Uncle Arthur got into the backstreets, where there weren’t as many people. He didn’t look behind him, so Tommy thought he would probably be OK following, but he kept his distance and stopped every now and then to look in a shop window. Soon, though, there were no shops except for the occasional newsagent’s and bookie’s, with maybe a café or a run-down pub on a street corner. Tommy started to get increasingly worried that he would be seen. What would Uncle Arthur do then? It didn’t bear thinking about. He put his hand in his pocket and fingered the badge. It gave him courage. Occasionally, he crossed the street and followed from the other side. There were still a few people, including families with children carrying buckets and spades heading for the beach, so he didn’t stick out like a sore thumb.

  Finally, just when Tommy thought he would have to give up because the streets were getting too narrow and empty, Uncle Arthur disappeared into a pub called the Golden Trumpet. That was an unforeseen development. Tommy was too young to enter a pub, and even if he did, he would certainly be noticed. He looked at the James Bond wristwatch he had got for his thirteenth birthday. It was a quarter to three. The pubs closed for the afternoon at three. That wasn’t too long to wait. He walked up to the front and tried to glance in the windows, but they were covered with smoked glass, so he couldn’t see a thing.

  There was a small café about twenty yards down the street, from which he could easily keep an eye on the pub door. Tommy went in and ordered a glass of milk and a sticky bun, which he took over to the table near the window, and watched the pub as he drank and ate. A few seedy-looking people came and went, but there was no sign of Uncle Arthur. Finally, at about ten past three, out he came with two other men. They stood in the street talking, faces close together, standing back and laughing as if they were telling a joke when anyone else walked past. Then, as if at a prearranged signal, they all walked off in different directions. Tommy didn’t think he needed to follow Uncle Arthur anymore, as he was clearly heading back in the direction of the boardinghouse. And he was carrying a small holdall that he hadn’t had with him before he went into the pub.

  “Where do you think you’ve been?”

  Tommy’s mother was sitting in the lounge when he got back to the boardinghouse. Uncle Arthur was with her, reading the afternoon paper. He didn’t look up.

  “Just walking,” said Tommy.

  “Where?”

  “Along the front.” Tommy was terrified that Uncle Arthur might have seen him and told his mother, and that she was trying to cat
ch him out in a lie.

  “I’ve told you not to go near the sea when I’m not with you,” she said.

  “I didn’t go near the sea,” Tommy said, relieved. “All the time I was on the prom I was behind the railings.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, Mummy. Honest. Cross my heart.” At least he could swear to that without fear of hellfire and damnation. When he had been on the prom, he had been behind the railings at the top of the high sea wall, far away from the sea.

  “All right, then,” she said. “Mrs. Newbiggin will be serving dinner soon, so go up and wash your hands like a good boy. Your uncle Arthur had a nice win on the horses this afternoon, so we’ll be going out to the Tower Ballroom to celebrate after. You’ll be all right here on your own reading or watching television, won’t you?”

  Tommy said he would be all right alone. But it wasn’t watching television that he had in mind, or reading The Saint in New York.

  The boardinghouse was quiet after dinner. When they had cleared the table, Mrs. Newbiggin and her husband disappeared into their own living quarters, most of the younger guests went out, and only the two old women who were always there sat in the lounge knitting and watching television. Tommy went up to his room and lay on his bed reading until he was certain his mother and Uncle Arthur hadn’t forgotten something, then he snapped into action.

  Ever since he had been little, he had had a knack for opening locks, and the one on Uncle Arthur’s door gave little resistance. In fact, the same key that opened his own door opened Uncle Arthur’s. He wondered if the other guests knew it was that easy. Once he stood on the threshold, he had a moment’s panic, but he touched the badge in his trouser pocket for luck and went inside, closing the door softly behind him.

  Uncle Arthur’s room was a mirror image of his own, with a tall wardrobe, single bed, chair, chest of drawers and a small washstand and towel. The flower-patterned wallpaper was peeling off at a damp patch where it met the ceiling, and Tommy could see the silhouettes of dead flies in the inverted lampshade. The wooden bed frame was scratched, and the pink candlewick bedspread had a dark stain near the bottom, as if someone had spilled tea on it. The ashtray on the bedside table was overflowing with crushed-out filter-tipped cigarettes. The narrow window, which looked out on the Newbiggins’ backyard, where the dustbins and the outhouse were, was covered in grime and cobwebs. It was open about an inch, and the net curtains fluttered in the breeze.

  First, Tommy looked under the bed. He found nothing there but dust and an old sock. Next, he went through the chest of drawers, which contained only Uncle Arthur’s clean underwear, a shaving kit, aspirin and some items he didn’t recognize. He assumed they were grown-ups’ things. The top of the wardrobe, for which Tommy had to enlist the aid of the rickety chair, proved to be a waste of time, too. The only place remaining was inside the wardrobe itself. The key was missing, but it was even easier to open a wardrobe than a door. Uncle Arthur’s shirts, trousers and jackets hung from the rail, and below them was his open suitcase containing a few pairs of dirty socks and underpants. No holdall.

  Just before he closed the wardrobe door, Tommy had an idea and lifted up the suitcase. Underneath it lay the holdall.

  He reached in, pulled it out and put it on the bed. It was a little heavy, but it didn’t make any noise when he moved it. There was no lock, and the zip slid open smoothly when he pulled the tab. At first, he couldn’t see what was inside, then he noticed something wrapped in brown paper. He lifted it out and opened it carefully. Inside was a gun. Tommy didn’t know what kind of gun, but it was heavier than any cap gun he had ever owned, so he assumed that it was a real one. He was careful not to touch it. He knew all about fingerprints. He wrapped it up and put it back. Then he noticed it was lying on a bed of what he had thought was paper, but when he reached in and pulled out a wad, he saw it was money. Five-pound notes, crumpled and dirty. He didn’t know how much there was, and he wasn’t going to count it. He had discovered enough for one evening. Carefully, he put everything back as it was. What he had to work out next was what he was going to do about it.

  That night as Tommy lay in bed unable to sleep, he heard hushed voices in his mother’s room. He didn’t like to eavesdrop on her, but given what he had just found in Uncle Arthur’s room, he felt he had to.

  It was almost impossible to hear what they were saying, and he only managed to catch a few fragments.

  “Can’t…money here…wait,” he heard Uncle Arthur say, and missed the next bit. Then he heard what sounded like, “Year…Jigger says Brazil,” and after a pause, “…the kid?” Next his mother’s voice said, “…grandparents.” He missed what Uncle Arthur said next, but distinctly heard his mother say, “have to, won’t they?…”

  Tommy wondered what they meant. Was Uncle Arthur planning a robbery, or had he already committed one? He certainly had a lot of money. Tommy remembered the three men talking outside the pub. One of them must have given Uncle Arthur the holdall. What for? Did it represent the proceeds or the means? Were Uncle Arthur and his mother going to run away to Brazil and leave him with his grandparents? He didn’t believe she would do that.

  The bedsprings creaked, and he thought he heard a muffled cry from the next room. His mother obviously couldn’t sleep. Was she crying about his father? Then, much later, when he was finally falling asleep himself, he heard her door close and footsteps pass by his room as if someone were walking on tiptoe.

  The next day at breakfast his mother and Uncle Arthur didn’t have very much to say. Both of them looked tired, and his mother had applied an extra bit of makeup to try to hide the dark pouches under her eyes. Uncle Arthur’s hair stuck up in places, and he needed a shave. The two old ladies looked at them sternly and clucked.

  “Stupid old bags,” muttered Uncle Arthur.

  “Now, now,” said Tommy’s mother. “Be nice, Arthur. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  The conversation he had overheard last night still worried Tommy as he ate his bacon and eggs. They had definitely mentioned the money. Was his mother about to get involved in something criminal? Was it Uncle Arthur who was going to involve her? If that was so, he had to stop it before it happened, or she would go to jail. The money and the gun were in Uncle Arthur’s room, after all, and his mother could deny that she knew anything about them. Tommy had heard his mother insisting before they came away that they would have a room each. Uncle Arthur hadn’t liked the idea because it would cost more money, but he had no choice. Tommy knew what it was like when his mother made her mind up.

  The bag and gun would have Uncle Arthur’s fingerprints all over them. Tommy was certain that Uncle Arthur must have handled the bag and the items in it since he had picked them up at the pub, if only to check that everything was there and to take out enough money for their trip to the Tower Ballroom last night. But his mother would have had no reason to touch them, or even see them, and Tommy himself had been careful when he lifted and opened the bag.

  “Pass the sauce,” said Uncle Arthur. “What we doing today?”

  Tommy passed him the HP sauce. “Why don’t we go up the Tower?” he suggested.

  “I don’t like heights,” said Uncle Arthur.

  “I’ll go by myself, then.”

  “No, you won’t,” said his mother, who seemed as concerned about heights as she was about water.

  “Well, what can we do, then?” Tommy asked. “I don’t mind just looking at the shops by myself.”

  “Like a bloody woman, you are, with your shops,” said Uncle Arthur.

  Tommy had meant bookshops and record shops. He was still looking for a used copy of Dr. No and hoping that the new Beatles single “Help” would be released any day now, even though he would have to wait until he got home to listen to it. But he wasn’t planning on going to the shops, anyway, so there was no sense in making an issue of it. “I might go to the Pleasure Beach as well,” he said, looking at Uncle Arthur. “Can you give me some money to go on the rides?”
>
  Uncle Arthur looked as if he was going to say no, then he sighed, swore and dug his hand in his pocket. He gave Tommy two ten-shilling notes, which was a lot of money. He could buy Dr. No and “Help” and go on rides with that much, and still have change for a Mivvi and five Park Drive tipped. But he wasn’t sure that he should spend it because he didn’t know where it had come from. “Cor,” he said. “Thanks, Arthur.”

  “It’s Uncle Arthur to you,” said his mother.

  “Yeah, remember that,” said Uncle Arthur. “Show a bit of respect for your elders and betters. And don’t spend it all on candy floss and toffee apples.”

  “What about you?” Tommy asked. “Where are you going?”

  “Dunno,” said Uncle Arthur. “You, Maddy?”

  “You know I hate being called that,” Tommy’s mother said. Her name, Tommy knew, was Madeleine, and she didn’t like it being shortened.

  “Sorry,” said Uncle Arthur with a cheeky grin.

  “Do you know, I wouldn’t mind taking the tram all the way along the seafront to Fleetwood and back,” she said, then giggled. “Isn’t that silly?”

  “Not at all,” said Uncle Arthur. “That sounds like a lot of fun. It looks like a warm day. We can sit upstairs in the open. Give me a few minutes. I’ve just got to get a shave first.”

  “And comb your hair,” said Tommy’s mother.

  “Now, don’t be a nag,” said Uncle Arthur, wagging his finger. “Maybe we’ll see if we can call in at one of them there travel agents, too, while we’re out.”

  “Arthur!” Tommy’s mother looked alarmed.

  “What? Oh, don’t worry.” He got up and tousled Tommy’s hair. “I’m off for a shave, then. You’ll have to do that yourself one day, you know,” he said, rubbing his dark stubble against Tommy’s cheek.