Is there anything else of interest to report? No, everything else is lonely and peaceful. It might have been primeval England that bit of Common. Until you come right up to the North‐West corner of the Common, almost into Putney. Then there’s something. It’s the figure of a man. He is running, darting from tree to tree, seeking cover all the way. He’s milky pale and down his face the sweat is coursing. He hasn’t noticed that there’s blood on his collar. But there is: the Blonde splashed over him when he hit her.
And while he runs he keeps muttering something to himself. It’s indistinct because he’s out of breath. But it sounds like this.
‘Oh Mum, I didn’t mean to. I never meant to hurt her. I didn’t mean to, Mum.’
Percy is in real trouble now.
Chapter XVII
1
It was just a week later. Sunday had come round again. And Sunday is always a good time for finding people at home.
Over at the studio flat in Adelaide Road Doreen was sitting up in bed reading the paper and drinking a cup of tea that Doris had made for her. It was a bright sparkling kind of morning. There had been rain in the night. But now the sun was shining and all the surrounding roof tops – there was a good view of these – looked as clean and fresh as though they had been scrubbed as well as drenched. Doris was sitting on the end of Doreen’s bed, drinking a cup of tea herself and smoking a cigarette. There was something pleasantly idle and luxurious about it all. Because it was Sunday it wouldn’t matter if they just messed about in dressing‐gowns for half the morning and then had a sort of combined meal later, half breakfast and half lunch. It was, in fact, exactly for such a morning as this that she and Doreen had set up house together.
Because Doreen had been the one to grab the paper – she was the first to see the headlines about the dead girl on Wimbledon Common. She adored all crime. And she started to read automatically. But there weren’t many details to go on. It was too early for that. The headlines, in fact, were the best part. Trousered Blonde Dead By Stolen Car, they ran; and below them in smaller type, motor bandit’s death ride. The news of this affair was really very scanty. All that it said was that a blonde, with coloured toe nails and extensive head injuries, had been found dead close beside an abandoned car belonging to a Crystal Palace accountant. The car, which had been stolen less than two hours before the occurrence of the crime, had since been identified by P.C. Lamb (inset) as the vehicle which had been driven head on at him when he signalled it to stop. The police had removed the stolen car on a lorry so that they could examine it for fingerprints.
Fingerprints! Doreen curled up her toes as she read. The word always gave her a delicious little shudder. She was very comfortable and this was really the ideal way to enjoy a crime. It had always seemed a funny thing to her, the way there were two kinds of people in the world – those who went about murdering and getting murdered, and those who just read about it. She had, however, read so much about crime that she was sure, absolutely sure, that she knew exactly how murderers must feel after they’d killed someone. Sooner or later, if she could find someone to go with, she meant to get into the Old Bailey sometime and sit right through a murder trial. She had never actually seen a murderer.
She looked up for a moment.
‘Doris, my lamb,’ she said. ‘Do be an angel and give me another cigarette. I wasn’t going to, but yours smells so divine I simply must.’
2
Back in Dulcimer Street, Sunday morning was proceeding very much as usual. Starting from the top flat Mr Puddy was doing quite nicely, in a quiet bachelor way. He had just finished a piece of best end haddock and was going on to the bread and butter and marmalade. The only thing that rankled was that there hadn’t been enough haddock, or at least, not so much as he had expected. He’d chosen the bit of fish himself – chosen it carefully – and they couldn’t have given him the bit he’d picked. His bit had been nearly twice the size.
There was only one other thing that was wrong. Because the haddock had been rather on the salt side – tasty, but decidedly salt – it meant that Mr Puddy kept on wanting cups of tea. He had to go over to the gas ring twice for more hot water. And all that jumping up and down wasn’t doing him any good. He couldn’t digest properly when moving.
Mr Puddy read about the girl on Wimbledon Common, too. He sucked at his teeth as he read it, and wondered if P. C. Grubb was any relation of a man who had once been with him in the milk round business. But he didn’t linger over the case. There was nothing particularly interesting about it so far as he could see. Nothing that made it stand out. Now, if the policeman had been fired at, for instance… Or if the dead girl had been inside the car, and if the bandit had set fire to the car.
As it was, Mr Puddy’s thoughts reverted to the fishmonger and what he was going to say to him.
Down below, Connie was already up and about. She wasn’t looking her best at this moment. She hadn’t dressed yet. Or washed. Or done her hair. With last night’s make‐up still on she had the look of a battered, rather dissipated doll.
She was clad only in her dressing‐gown and her swansdown bedroom slippers. But she was busy all right. She was doing a letter, she was. A very important letter. And it wasn’t easy. The sixpenny pad from Woolworth’s – the Goldonia – was half used up already and nothing to show for it. This was to be her last attempt. And, if it didn’t come out right this time, she’d decided to chuck the whole thing and try again later. But everything was now ready for the last attempt. She’d cleaned the nib and drawn half a dozen faint lines in pencil to keep the writing straight.
The letter was addressed to the Secretary of the Actors’ and Actresses’ Benevolent Fund. ‘Dear Sir or Madam,’ it began, ‘Like so many members of our Profession I have fallen upon evil times, owing to me having been in the club business prior to our licence going. I have lost most of my old stage connections and I am too short for the films. I am now entirely without funds and the rent keeps coming round as usual. Anything that your Society could do in the way of a small pension or loan, or put me in touch with someone with a view to an engagement either backstage or cloaks, would be gratefully appreciated by Yours truly, Connie Coke. P.S. The play’s the thing.’
She sat back and read the letter over. Nothing had gone wrong this time, and what she had written was about as good as she could hope to get it. There was an envelope already addressed and Connie folded the letter, kissed it and popped it inside.
Then she got up and poured into her hand a little heap of crumbs from a paper bag that had contained biscuits.
‘It’s in the laps of the Gods, little Dukey boy,’ she said.
And taking a mouthful of the broken biscuits, she pressed her face up against the cage so that Duke could peck the crumbs one by one out of her pursed‐up lips.
In the Boons’ front room everything was still very quiet. Mrs Boon had been up early as usual and had gone round to St Joseph’s for eight o’clock Mass. It was silent and detached and peaceful, and, at the same time, snug inside St Joseph’s. Those thirty‐five minutes on Sundays were like a rest cure. They did her real good. It was funny the way just going round the corner for half an hour before most people were up could make you feel calm and contented all the rest of the week. And it was a pity that Percy was too tired to come with her nowadays. But he was all in by Sundays.
She was back now and had taken Percy’s morning cuppa in to him. That had been nearly an hour ago. And there was still no sign of him. It seemed to Mrs Boon that the garage worked Percy too hard. And those odd jobs they gave him, like last Sunday night. He had been worn out by the time he got home. She was quite worried about him.
She didn’t want to start breakfast without him because that would destroy all the cosy feeling of Sunday morning. Besides, Percy didn’t like it either, that way. That was because they were such chums, her and Percy. He wasn’t like a son the way he went on. He was more like a husband really. And always thinking of her in his own way, too. There was that lovely blue
rug he’d given her. It made her feet tingle just to touch it in the mornings.
And only on Thursday he’d talked about a holiday for her that summer. ‘Somewhere good, like Clacton,’ he’d said. ‘Book up at a boarding‐house. Have someone to wait on you for a bit.’ And he’d said that he would try to get hold of a car to run her down. It was just too lovely to think about. So lovely, that perhaps it was wicked. In any case, she was sure it wouldn’t come true. Percy would be too busy, or he would forget, or something. All the same, she kept on thinking. She couldn’t help it. It was wonderful to think of four square meals a day appearing punctually on the table without having to cook any of them.
She glanced at the clock. It was after ten now. Percy was even later than usual. She put out her hand and felt the tea‐pot. Cold. Very nearly stone cold. But that was her fault. She’d heard a sound earlier that she’d thought was Percy dressing, and she’d made the tea without calling through to ask if he was ready. Of course, as soon as Percy showed up she’d have to make a fresh pot – he couldn’t be expected to drink stuff like that. And he’d probably want some fresh bacon as well. It would have to be a new breakfast in fact.
While she was sitting there, she poured herself out a cup of the dark tepid brew that had been quietly stewing itself, and drank it quickly, furtively. She didn’t want Percy to catch her at it. It would have looked so greedy, not waiting.
… At Clacton, too, there would be pleasure cruises and charabanc trips. Round the lighthouse and mystery tours of East Anglia with twenty or thirty other happy, carefree mothers. Perhaps she could persuade Percy to come with her on one of them. Only Percy hadn’t said anything about going to Clacton himself. Only about sending her there.
One floor below, Mr Josser was getting ready for his new job. He had just taken his fountain pen to pieces. For some reason or other the ink wouldn’t flow properly. And he’d removed the nib. Now he was engaged in taking everything else out as well. It was a messy job. Messier than it need have been perhaps. Apparently there was still some ink left in the barrel. Because, just as he was removing the sac, a great gobbet of ink, like a wet black egg, came squirting out through the hole where the nib had been. A little of it went on his sleeve, but most of it spattered on to the newspaper that Mrs Josser had made him spread out before he started. Mrs Josser was a woman who was deeply convinced of the precautionary merits of newspaper.
He was due to start to‐morrow, and had spent all yesterday as well putting things in order. On the table in front of him were the list of addresses, and a little pad of blotting paper and the spare rent books in case new ones were needed. He’d put in a lot of time, too, on the confidential notes that the firm had given him. Pretty nearly memo‐rised them in fact… No. 22, Reginald Buildings: slow payers, accept no promises… No. 17 Guinevere Street: out till seven, all day Saturday… No. 143, Arkley Rents: Charge 2/6 for new rent book if old one still missing.… No. 1, Cranmer Terrace: Knock loudly, very deaf… It seemed that once you became a tenant of his employers they knew as much about you as though they were members of your own family.
Then, as Mr Josser absent‐mindedly jigged the little filling lever of the pen backwards and forwards to see how it worked it came clean off in his hands. Apparently he’d shifted the little catch inside that was meant to hold it. This was a pity, a great pity. Because, of course, it meant that the pen was no use any longer. And he needed a fountain pen more than ever now. He couldn’t go walking up to people’s front doors with a pen holder in one hand and a bottle of ink in the other.
He was still trying to get the little lever back into place again when Mrs Josser came in. She was as neat and brisk and businesslike as usual. In her hand was a large china mug.
‘Stop playing about with that pen,’ she told him. ‘Here’s your shaving water.’
‘It’s broken,’ said Mr Josser looking up suddenly.
Mrs Josser came over and inspected the inky mess in front of him.
‘I told you not to,’ she said. ‘Fountain pens aren’t meant to be taken to pieces.’
‘It isn’t the bit I took out that’s broken.’
‘Well, you’ll have to dip it, that’s all,’ Mrs Josser replied. ‘And don’t let the water get cold.’
‘I’ve had that pen a long time,’ Mr Josser said slowly.
In the front‐basement, Mrs Vizzard had already done all that she had to do. The breakfast things were washed up and put away, and the table had been polished. Altogether, it was as neat and tidy as any room you could find in South London. Mrs Vizzard herself was taking things easily for a moment. She was sitting bolt upright in the tall armchair, reading a magazine.
It was her favourite reading that she was absorbed in. Luckily, The Spirit World, a sixpenny, came out punctually on Saturdays, ready for its Sunday morning treat. And it was certainly full value. Every issue spoke straight to hearts that were broken or in disrepair. There were messages from the dead, dozens of them, and through the closely printed pages, subscribers could keep in touch with other people’s sweethearts, children, parents, even pets – all recently passed over. As well as these there were communications from ancient priests, mediæval Doges, Emirs from Afghanistan and deceased clergy of all sects.
This week’s issue contained one special attraction. It was a long spirit letter, astonishingly mature in manner from one so young, from an unborn child. The recipient, a mother of three other children, chose to remain anonymous, but was vouched for by a vicar, a faith‐healer and a Captain, R.N. (Retired). Mrs Vizzard had saved this to the last. It was too good to be squandered lightly by rapid reading. The mere address from which it was written, ‘Inside Limbo,’ was enough to send shivers of anticipation running through her.
‘I know my name now, dear mother,’ the missive began, ‘the name that you would have given me. It’s Daphne. I repeat it to myself sometimes because it helps me to remember you. But in the spirit world we have our own names – names that cannot be expressed in words. Beautiful, luminous names…’
But, for some reason, Mrs Vizzard wasn’t thinking of the spirit world any longer. She was thinking of Mr Squales. It wasn’t as though he were a failure, an actual failure, she told herself. He just hadn’t succeeded, that was all. But there was still time. He hadn’t reached his prime yet. Not a man’s prime, that is. He couldn’t be more than forty‐two or forty‐three at the most. And that was where a man was so lucky: in his forties, he has another fifteen or twenty years in front of him before people even begin to think of him as getting elderly. Whereas a woman…
Mrs Vizzard got up and stood in front of the mirror overmantel. She studied herself, slowly and critically. But so far from being depressed, she was actually reassured. There was nothing actually wrong with her face that she could see; nothing that she couldn’t alter if she wanted to. Lifting her hands, she loosened the dark metallic hair a little at the temples so that the hard lines of the forehead – it was a bleak uncompromising forehead – were concealed. Then abruptly she turned away from the mirror in disgust.
‘Don’t be a fool, Louise,’ she said bitterly. ‘You ought to have more pride.’
At the same moment, Mr Squales was lying on his back in bed in the next room staring up at the ceiling.
Because he hadn’t shaved, the sides of his face and chin were dark and bluish looking. But that was only natural. Even when shaved, Mr Squales’ complexion was still distinctly olive. Almost Levantine, in fact. And in the early morning it was more Mediterranean than ever. He was smoking, of course, because he always did smoke either in bed or out of it. And, because the stub was just burning his lips, a supple, dusky hand emerged from the bed‐clothes and crushed out the cigarette end in the saucer on the chair beside the bed. Then the hand began groping for the packet.
But the packet, when the hand found it, was empty. There wasn’t even a half‐smoked one stuffed away there. So there was nothing that Mr Squales could do but draw the hand back under the bed‐clothes again and go on lying there, g
azing at the grey discoloured ceiling and thinking.
‘It’d be a solution,’ he told himself. ‘One way out of this mess. At least it’d be security.’
But his spirit, the unquenchable part of him, rebelled against it.
‘I must have sunk pretty low. I must have come down further than I realised,’ he went on. ‘If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t even be considering it. Probably I’m not well – I haven’t felt well lately. If I was myself, I’d turn it down without a thought.’ He paused. ‘And how do I know I can’t do better?’ he continued. ‘Much better. After all, there’s something about me. Something the others haven’t got. I know. I can tell from the way women look at me. I’ve seen a light in their eyes that shouldn’t be there.’
The line his thoughts were taking helped to brace him.
‘If I did it,’ he continued, ‘I should be throwing myself away. I should just be squandering myself.’ He squared his shoulders on the pillow. ‘No, it’s not good enough. I may come to it. Or something like it. But not yet. Definitely not yet.’
His courage was returning to him in great waves. He laced his hands behind his head and sat up in bed a little. For a moment he was resolute, confident, resourceful; almost young again. But it was a mistake all the same sitting up in this way. For his eyes fell upon his clothes spread out over the armchair by the fireplace. And there was nothing in the least reassuring about his clothes. The frayed turn‐ups, the tattered lining of the jacket, the shirt with its tail cut off to make new cuffs, the blue socks darned with black, the shoes that had collapsed sideways over the worn down heels – they weren’t the clothes of a success in life.
‘Even my fur‐coat is going back on me,’ he told himself. ‘The collar comes out in tufts if you forget and pull at it.’
London Belongs to Me Page 24