‘Pardon?’ said Paul. ‘No, never mind, the new leaflets are in, so we’ll patrol Walworth Road today and hand ’em out.’
‘You and I will?’ said Lulu.
‘We could do a lot together in Walworth Road, even if only for an hour or two,’ said Paul.
Lulu chucked an eraser at him.
Boots made a phone call to the South London Press from his office. This excellent local paper had covered the traffic incident at Camberwell Green, and some obliging reporter on the news desk answered Boots’s enquiry as to the name of the injured car driver.
‘George Wheeler.’
‘Thanks,’ said Boots, and rang King’s College Hospital. He asked reception how Mr George Wheeler was.
‘Are you a relative, or a friend?’
‘A friend.’
‘Then you probably know he has a broken right shoulder, fractured ribs and a broken right leg.’
‘Grim for poor old George,’ said Boots, ‘but it could have been worse, and it usually is when you argue with a bus. What’s his condition like?’
‘Low but stable.’
‘So he’s not up to receiving visitors yet?’
‘Give him two or three more days.’
‘Thank you.’
Boots let Sammy know they couldn’t call on the patient yet.
Rosie and Emma were packaging eggs in a converted stable. The stable, close to the large cottage, had always been incorporated in the freehold of the latter.
The packed eggs, eight hundred of them and fresh that day, would be collected for distribution to London restaurants.
The phone, on an extension from the cottage, rang its tune. Rosie picked it up.
‘Surrey Downs Poultry Farm.’
‘That you, Rosie? Major Gorringe here. Now look here, Rosie old girl, what the devil’s going off there at night? Sounds like a dervish with his arse on fire.’
‘It’s an alarm system,’ said Rosie. Gilbert Gorringe, a retired Army major, was a neighbour, hearty, bluff, and no nonsense. ‘To frighten off foxes.’
‘Foxes my Aunt Fanny. It’s putting the wind up Mildred.’ Mildred was his wife. ‘Fell out of the bloody bed when it went off last night. I thought Matt was going to shoot the bushy-tails.’
‘He and Jonathan have tried, I assure you,’ said Rosie.
‘What, what? Missed ’em, did they? Well, I’m coming over myself with my pea-shooter.’
‘You’re very welcome, Major,’ said Rosie, ‘but it’s rare for us to see them by day.’
‘I’ll bring Wellington. He’ll sniff ’em out.’ Wellington was his Yorkshire terrier. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. Where are Matt and Jonathan?’
‘Delivering laying hens to customers in Westerham,’ said Rosie.
‘Right, Rosie. Leave it to me, and I’ll blast the backsides off those blankety-blank perishers,’ said Major Gorringe.
He arrived as promised, a large, red-faced man, square of shoulders and ramrod of back. He put his head into the egg-packing chamber.
‘Hello,’ said Rosie.
‘Hello,’ said Emma, her infant daughter toddling about.
‘Good morning, ladies, that’s the stuff, you both look splendid,’ said Major Gorringe. ‘Won’t interrupt you, I just want to know I’ve got your official permission to do my shooting on your land, Rosie.’
‘Go ahead, Major,’ said Rosie, dressed, like Emma, in a white smock.
‘Right. Now, where’s that bloody dog? Wellington?’ He roared the name. Wellington responded with an excited bark, and off went the major, gun under his arm.
He was away for an hour and a half, during which time Rosie and Emma heard the periodic crack of his rifle.
‘He’s enjoying himself,’ said Emma.
‘He’s probably ordering the foxes to stand to attention before he pulls the trigger,’ said Rosie.
‘Well, people do say Mrs Gorringe has to stand to attention for morning inspection,’ said Emma.
‘Do we believe that?’ smiled Rosie, placing eggs in a shaped fibre tray that held two dozen.
‘It’s credible to me,’ said Emma, one eye on little Jessie, the other on eggs.
‘He’s a character,’ said Rosie.
When Major Gorringe returned, he presented himself smartly to Rosie and Emma.
‘Good sortie, ladies. Wellington sniffed ’em out, got ’em running in front of my shooter. Bagged a full quartet, two dog foxes and two vixens. All flea-ridden, by God. I’ll ring Doug Paterson of East Surrey Hounds and get him to pick up the carcases to feed to his pack. I’ll be obliged if you’ll inform Matt and Jonathan, and hope your alarm won’t put the wind up Mildred from now on.’
‘Matt and Jonathan will be delighted at the news,’ said Rosie.
‘I’m thrilled and relieved,’ said Emma.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said the major. ‘Damn good hunting for me and Wellington. Hrrmph, your chick’s just fallen on her botty, Emma. Stand her to attention. Good morning, ladies.’
Matthew, on hearing of Major Gorringe’s success in despatching four foxes, said he’d let the alarm stay on this night, just to make sure.
It was only an hour after dark that the floodlight blazed and the banshee sound howled. Matthew woke up cursing, Major Gorringe woke up swearing, and Mrs Gorringe, waking up shrieking, fell out of bed. Major Gorringe helped her up and stood her to attention.
In the cottage, Matthew said, ‘Damn my shirt tails, Rosie, either the major missed our pair or they’ve risen from the dead.’
‘From what we know about that pair,’ said Rosie, ‘I’ll opt for risen from the dead. And they’ll burrow under the wire one night when they get used to the floodlight and the howl.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chinese Lady said, ‘I don’t know, time just seems to be running away, Edwin.’
‘It does run faster, Maisie, when one has turned sixty,’ said Mr Finch.
‘Oh, lor’,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘in no time at all I’ll be Lady Finch, and I still won’t know how to talk to my neighbours and old friends.’
‘You’ll manage, my dear, just as you’ve managed everything else of a problematical kind,’ said Mr Finch, who had received official confirmation of the honour being accorded him.
‘Well,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘I’m not sure about problem—what was the word, Edwin?’
‘Problematical,’ said Mr Finch.
‘I can’t remember anything like that happening to me,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘What I do remember is Sammy giving me headaches every time he went out of my front door in Walworth. Well, I never knew what he was going to get up to.’
‘What he got up to, Maisie, turned out to be notable,’ said Mr Finch.
‘Yes, lining his pocket,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘That boy and his liking for money just wasn’t respectable. Edwin, I won’t have to do any curtseying at Buckingham Palace, will I?’
‘No, Maisie, none, you’ll be shown to a seat and you’ll only be required to observe the ceremony.’
‘That’s a mercy,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Edwin?’
‘Thank you, Maisie, very much,’ said the understanding Mr Finch.
‘What the hell’s happening with the Parson?’ growled Mr Ben Ford, the Fat Man.
‘I ain’t heard from him meself,’ said Large Lump.
‘Well, shift yourself,’ said Fat Man. ‘Rat off to Soho and ask questions. Find out what his official monicker is, and where he lives.’
‘Asking about official monickers in Soho, guv, ain’t supposed to be too healthy,’ said Large Lump.
‘Take the back-up with you,’ wheezed Fat Man. ‘Do a bit of eye-gouging if you have to. I want to know where the Parson’s got to with me fifty nickers. If he’s on his way to Australia, I’ve been done to a turn, and I ain’t going to like it.’
‘Guv, I got recommendations about him being honest, didn’t I?’ said Large Lump.
‘If honesty with my fifty oners is on the way to Austr
alia,’ said Fat Man, ‘I’ll dock your bleedin’ wages. So shove off to Soho and start asking. I want to know why Sammy Adams, or his brother Boots, ain’t crippled yet. Then there’s Tommy Adams. Is he still walking about uncrippled? Get moving.’
Off went Large Lump, leaving the Fat Man to brood on the dishonesty of people these days. You couldn’t trust anyone. What with that and the continuing downtrend in the prices of scrap metal, and cocky bleedin’ Sammy Adams, he’d be better off emigrating to the Isle of Wight.
A little parcel, registered for safe delivery, arrived for Bess. Opening it, she discovered a slim volume of poems by William Wordsworth, and a greeting from Jeremy Passmore on the flyleaf.
‘To Bess, a delightful companion for some happy hours on one of Wordsworth’s little islands on Lake Windermere, August 1949. With every good wish. Jeremy.’
There was also a brief covering letter from Mr Dan Passmore.
‘Dear Miss Adams, I’m enclosing a book Jeremy handed to me just before he left, asking me to send it on to you, which I felt I must do. And I’d like to say it was a pleasure talking to you on the phone. Yours sincerely, Dan Passmore.’
Bess, delighted with the book, acknowledged its receipt in a letter of thanks.
‘Well, isn’t it nice?’ said Susie, leafing through the book. ‘It’s poems. Sammy, look.’
Sammy took his turn to glance through the volume.
‘Always being busy trying to earn a bit of the ready for me dear old ma,’ he said, ‘I never had much time for reading books, Bess.’
‘Oh, rotten hard luck, Dad,’ said Bess.
‘And I only know one poem,’ said Sammy.
‘Which one is that?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Well, let’s see,’ said Sammy, and quoted.
‘“A merchant of London put his profit
Into a Cheapside safe deposit,
But very sad to say,
On a heartbreaking day,
The Germans dropped bombs and he lost it.”’
‘He ought to have put it in his old socks, like you did, Dad,’ said Paula.
‘Daddy, you don’t still do that, do you?’ said Phoebe.
‘No, not much,’ said Sammy. ‘Anyway, this book of poems shows this feller Jeremy has got a soft spot for our Bess.’
‘Romantic,’ said Paula.
‘Is she blushing?’ asked Phoebe.
‘I can’t see any signs,’ said Jimmy.
‘You can all stop looking,’ said Bess.
‘But she’s supposed to blush, isn’t she?’ said Phoebe, giggling.
‘She might have, a hundred years ago,’ said Jimmy.
‘Don’t be soppy,’ said Paula. ‘Mum, did you blush when Dad did things that showed he had a soft spot for you?’
‘What things?’ asked Jimmy.
‘I’m innocent,’ said Sammy. ‘I was then, and I am now.’
‘But didn’t you ever send Mum a Valentine card before you were married?’ asked Paula.
‘Valentine cards cost money,’ said Susie, ‘tuppence each at least. But you can forget about him being innocent. He actually gave me some fancy undies for a Christmas present once.’
‘Undies, Mum?’ said Bess. ‘Before you were married, and in those days?’
‘Yes, would you believe?’ said Susie.
‘Dad, you saucy old thing,’ said Paula.
‘Mummy, what did you do?’ asked Phoebe.
‘Blushed,’ said Susie. ‘I was the innocent one, not your dad.’
The morning after he’d been sent to Soho on an enquiry job, Large Lump reported to the Fat Man that he’d had no joy.
‘You standing there like the Rock of Gibraltar with nothing good coming out of your concrete?’ gurgled Fat Man.
‘Well, I did me best, guv, with me back-up standing by,’ said Large Lump. ‘We stayed there till gone midnight, asking around all the time, but no-one invited me to sit down and put me ear to his cakehole. I got to tell yer, guv, that I’m short on information for yer, like.’
‘You’re bleedin’ useless,’ yelled Fat Man out of his blubber.
‘Hold hard, guv,’ said Large Lump, ‘I showed me knuckledusters, didn’t I? And me intentions if nobody spoke up. And I trod on more’n one foot. But I never met such a gorblimey kiss-my-elbow lot. Mind, I did say you don’t make no friends, asking around in a place like that.’
Fat Man began a wheezing rumble of discontent, mainly to the effect that no-one on his payroll was earning his dibs, that he’d be better off hiring bob-a-job Boy Scouts. Large Lump mumbled something about he didn’t like listening to ingratitude.
‘Eh? Eh?’ Fat Man’s squeezed eyeballs turned a bit red.
‘Well, I ask yer reasonable, guv, where’s any Boy Scout that’s got enough muscle to do yer shop collections? Ain’t we always done them reg’lar rounds of the shops that’s got contracts with you for protection, and ain’t we always brought back the correct monthly commission?’
‘I ain’t denying that, am I?’ rasped Fat Man. ‘But who was it that recommended the Parson, and who’s sloped off with me fifty quid? The bloody Parson.’
‘I ask yer, guv, did anyone tell me he wasn’t honest?’ said Large Lump plaintively. ‘No-one, me word of honour. That reminds me, just as we was leaving last night, some geezer did come up and whisper to try the ’ospitals.’
‘Hospitals?’
‘Course, it ain’t what you call information—’
‘I call it that, you charlie. Start trying.’
‘You think he’s having an operation, guv?’
‘That whispering geezer was probably telling you he’s been done over for another dishonest contract,’ growled Fat Man. ‘So start visiting.’
‘Visiting?’
‘Hospitals.’
‘But we don’t know his monicker.’
‘But you can recognize him, can’t you? Try the accident cases wards. Start now, you and the others, while I take some aspirin.’
The receptionist at King’s College Hospital perked up when two impressive-looking gentlemen arrived to ask if they could see a certain patient.
‘Which one?’
‘Mr George Wheeler,’ said Boots.
‘Last week’s car crash victim, poor old George,’ said Sammy.
‘You’re relatives?’
‘Friends,’ said Boots. ‘How is he?’
The receptionist consulted notes.
‘Better than he was, you’ll be pleased to know, and now able to receive visitors. But visiting times are evenings or Sunday afternoons.’
‘Ah,’ said Boots, and gave the lady a smile. ‘It’s afternoon now.’
‘Yes, sir, Thursday afternoon.’
‘The only afternoon we can manage,’ said Boots.
‘Well, as you’re the first visitors he’s had, perhaps Sister Phillips will stretch a point.’
Sister Phillips, looking crisp, starched and hygienic, crumpled a little when trying to cope with Sammy’s blue eyes and Boots’s whimsical comment that visitors out of hours could sometimes be better for a patient than visitors at all hours. She attempted to point out that visitors at all hours were never permitted under the hospital’s strictly necessary regulations, but lost the thread of it halfway through.
‘. . . never permitted – oh, well, perhaps as you’re Mr Wheeler’s first visitors, apart from the police who came yesterday to ask him about the accident, I believe, we can make an exception.’
‘How very kind,’ said Boots.
‘Much obliged,’ said Sammy.
Sister Phillips took them to the surgical ward of this internationally famous hospital, now a vital unit of the National Health Service, in which all treatment was free, if one ignored wage deductions imposed on the masses.
The Parson, all done up in plaster and bandages, was awake when Boots and Sammy entered the ward in company with Sister Phillips. If his bones had suffered, his eyes hadn’t. They blinked rapidly.
‘Here are two visitors to see you, Mr Wheeler,’
said Sister Phillips. ‘No longer than twenty minutes now,’ she said to Boots. ‘And don’t excite him.’ She turned to go, then said, ‘Or make him laugh.’
‘I promise you, it’ll only be a quiet, friendly chat,’ said Boots, and she left them to it.
The Parson, caged up in his bed, followed the movements of his visitors out of quick eyes as they sat down, Boots on the right of his bed, Sammy on the left.
‘Yes, sit down,’ he said, ‘I’m at home to visitors today. Would it be inquisitive of me to ask who you are?’
With other patients looking on, Boots leaned forward and said very quietly, ‘I think you know who we are.’
‘Flanagan and Allen?’ The man, Boots and Sammy both noted, spoke without moving his lips, or so it seemed.
‘What we’d like to know ourselves,’ said Sammy, just as quietly, ‘is why you tried to puncture us.’
‘With a very nasty crossbow bolt,’ said Boots.
‘You’re joking, of course,’ said the Parson. ‘I wish you wouldn’t, not with the kind of ribs I’ve got. Didn’t I hear the ward sister tell you not to make me laugh?’
‘Well, let me put it very seriously,’ said Boots. ‘Either you tell us something we believe, or we’ll hit you with a hammer. Show him, Sammy.’
Sammy opened up one side of his jacket to reveal a hammer, its handle tucked inside an unbuttoned section of his waist. He gave the Parson just a brief eyeful of the iron head.
‘That’s serious?’ said the Parson. ‘In here in front of my fellow sufferers?’
‘It’s your party, tosh,’ said Sammy, ‘we’re only here to help you enjoy it. Tell him, Boots.’
‘Pleasure,’ said Boots. ‘Yesterday, the police asked you about the crossbow, of course?’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘Mind your own business,’ said Sammy.
‘What I object to about the police,’ said the Parson, ‘is their nosiness. Even if a bloke was only in possession of a penknife, they’d want to know if he only used it for sharpening pencils. As I explained to them yesterday in the middle of all my pain, I bought it for my dear old dad, a retired Sunday School teacher. It’s the kind of thing he likes to play with, being in his dotage, poor old chap.’
‘Well, you’ll get the hammer one way or another, either here or the day you’re discharged,’ said Boots, the dialogue still very quiet to avoid the straining ears throughout the ward. ‘We’ll be waiting, front and back, or some of our men will, and you’ll be taken back into the hospital with both legs broken. That, Mr Wheeler, is no joke, it’s seriously serious.’
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