by Rumer Godden
What will they do to him? thought Lovejoy. Will they take him away? Will he be sent to one of those schools like Maxey? Or to prison? The skin under her hair seemed to prickle and she knew, in little, some of the fears of a wife whose husband has been arrested. Fears for him, for their name, for the home they had made together, even financial fears. They’ll tell Mrs. Malone, thought Lovejoy, and quailed; all the Malones will know, the whole Street, and we haven’t finished paying for the pansies. What will Mr. Driscoll do? Will he ask for them back—as Mrs. Combie was always threatening Vincent about the refrigerator? But in one thing the pansies were different from the refrigerator: Mr. Driscoll did not know where they were.
The garden was safe here, behind the church, tucked away; no one, no Driscoll or policeman, could find it. Not even Sparkey knew just where it was. No one knew. Then a thought seemed to ripple all through Lovejoy. No one, unless Tip told.
“And why shouldn’t I have told?” Tip was to ask long afterwards. “I didn’t, but why shouldn’t I?” And he said the thought that had eaten into him all the way through that time. “Sparkey didn’t run away and leave me.”
“I didn’t run away. I took the earth to the garden.”
“All you ever think about’s yourself.”
“I didn’t think about me, it was the garden,” but for Tip it was not possible to see that. He had only made the garden for Lovejoy; though he had grown to like it, to be interested, he did not know that things were sometimes made for themselves, not for human beings.
There was no artist in Tip, and—she might have stayed with me, was all he could think or feel. That thought had filled him all the time at Number Eleven and at the station; he, a big boy, had to blink tears back from his eyes. Tears! Tip had thought, appalled; that was what girls did to you, and he said bitterly, “Girls!”
Lovejoy, in the garden, knew enough of Tip to know he would not tell lies. He never will, she thought in despair, and he’ll have to say something. She herself was glib—but I’m not there, she thought distracted.
“Just like a girl, always wanting to interfere,” Tip was to say. “Couldn’t you trust me?” But Lovejoy could not.
But where’ll I go? she thought. To the Square? And dare I ask? Knock and ask if Tip’s there? I’m so dirty, she thought in dismay; Number Eleven seemed a very big, important house to her—and I’ll have to take the bucket; I can’t leave it here on the steps.
She gave a great shiver, from fright and cold; then slowly got to her feet, put out a finger and touched Jiminy Cricket, and started off across the rubble to go back.
•
“You needn’t come,” said Angela to Olivia.
In a long coat and the hat with the blue wings, the avenging-angel hat, Angela was ready to go with Lucas and the doctor to the police station. Doctor Dagleish was driving them—Olivia had thought often that it was remarkable how Angela could inveigle important people, doctors, bishops, Members of Parliament, to do small tasks for her, drive her, fetch her, collect parcels, ring up; now Doctor Dagleish, on his hospital morning, had meekly come to see Lucas; the police doctor would have done just as well, thought Olivia, but no, Angela had rung up Doctor Dagleish and he was ready to drive out of his way, to take them to the station. Angela is very, very wonderful, thought Olivia. All the same she had to oppose her.
“I’m coming,” said Olivia, and with unaccustomed boldness she said, “I saw it all. I might have something to say too.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Angela. “It will only upset you.”
“Yes,” said Olivia.
“Then why?” Angela was tapping her foot.
“I believe I should be upset.”
“I ought to have stopped her then,” said Angela afterwards.
Olivia had been oddly assertive over this—“this episode,” said Angela. In the house, while they had all been busy with poor Lucas—when at last he got his breath he had been terribly exhausted, but they had been able to make him swallow a little brandy—Olivia had interrupted and asked the policeman, “Would there be any objection to my taking these boys down to the kitchen and giving them a hot drink?”
“A hot drink!” Angela had said. “After all they have done!”
“Whatever they have done they are soaking,” said Olivia, “and the little boy has a cold in the head. They must have been out very early, and it’s chilly for June. Besides, this sort of thing is a great strain,” added Olivia.
“Really, Olivia, I don’t—”
“Lucas has had brandy,” Olivia pointed out.
At the police station they had to wait a little—“For the boy’s father,” the constable said—but at last they were shown into a room that was so bare that it was a shock to Olivia. It seemed to come sharply down to reality—where things are just what they are, thought Olivia, no pretence or covering up, stark. The waiting room had had tables and chairs, a picture over the gas fire; there was a fireplace here, but it was swept and empty, as was the room, with its mustard-brown walls and high windows; there was nothing except two big old battered desks, with a chair behind one of them, and, along the whole side wall, a fixed bench, marked and blackened with use—from all the people who have sat on it, thought Olivia, been made to sit on it, lost children, pickpockets, drunks, prostitutes; now Tip and Sparkey sat there, and with them was a man, a huge man, thought Olivia.
“Sit down, please,” said the constable politely. Angela looked round for chairs, but there was none except the one at the desk and the constable did not bring that forward. Olivia would have followed Lucas to the bench, but Angela stopped her with a look. “Thank you, we would rather stand,” said Angela frostily.
An inspector came in; he was tall in his uniform with its row of ribbons, and bareheaded; Olivia noticed his smooth brown hair. How well groomed they are, she thought. Behind him was a younger, even bigger, policeman, who stood waiting. “What would he be?” Olivia whispered to Angela.
“He’s the jailer,” said Angela.
“The jailer?” Olivia shrank back.
“Don’t be silly,” said Angela. “He’s there to do what is needed, take people into custody, control anyone who is troublesome.”
“Like our boy,” said Olivia and she looked apprehensive for Tip.
“People don’t get brought in here for nothing,” said Angela, who had seen the look. “It’s serious.” Olivia’s heart began to beat uncomfortably.
The inspector gave her, as well as Angela, a quick look; I suppose he spends his life summing people up, thought Olivia; for some reason that did not perturb her. She sat there, listening quietly, almost from habit letting Angela handle this. Angela had already begun. “I am Miss Angela Chesney. This is Lucas, the gardener, who was hurt.” She did not introduce Olivia but went on, “Now, Officer—”
“Inspector Russell,” said the inspector quietly. “I’m sorry we kept you waiting. As you see, Malone’s father has come now.” The man with the boys stood up.
“I guessed he was a Malone,” said Angela, speaking of Tip. “They wouldn’t give their names,” she said indignantly.
“Jack Smith, Johnny Smith, they all say that,” said the inspector. “They give them fast enough when they come here.” He has a real smile, thought Olivia, not one clicked on. The inspector turned to Mr. Malone. “Your wife’s not back from work?”
“No, sir.” Mr. Malone spoke in a thick, low, blurred voice as if he did not understand what was happening. “She does a night shift, sir.”
“And the small boy’s mother is away?”
“Just for the night, sir.”
“He is staying with you?”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Malone.
The jailer motioned Tip and Sparkey to stand in front of the desk; they were dry but very, very dirty. All the bragging had gone out of Mr. Malone; he looked as big and bewildered—as an ox, thought Olivia, an ox suddenly put under a yoke, as he stood beside Tip, his cap in his hand. “Look,” he said to the inspector, “couldn’t we wa
it? The missus’ll be home soon.”
“These ladies have waited nearly an hour already,” said the inspector. “You’re the father. We must carry on.” He looked at Tip and Sparkey and the constable. “Well, what is this all about?” he asked. The constable cleared his throat, but before he could speak, “We stole,” said Sparkey with pride.
“We didn’t steal,” said Tip, red-faced.
“We stole,” said Sparkey.
“We didn’t,” said Tip.
“My boy never stole,” said Mr. Malone. “He wouldn’t.”
“We stole,” said Sparkey firmly.
“Now wait. Wait,” said the inspector and motioned to the constable to begin again.
“At five forty-five this morning,” said the constable, “I was at the junction of Mortimer Street where it joins Mortimer Square—”
“It begins long, long before that!” Angela broke in. “These children . . .” and she went eloquently on.
The boys’ eyes grew round with surprise as they listened to Angela. Shears? Iris plants? They began to be shocked. It looked as if the lady were telling lies; indeed, the inspector stopped her. “You mean the shears and plants disappeared?” he said. “You say the gardener caught the children taking earth. There is no evidence they took anything else.”
“Evidence?” said Angela, nettled. “What evidence do you want? I think they are an organized gang of young thieves.”
“Let’s keep to what we can prove,” said the inspector. “They took earth.”
“Thirteen loads of it,” said Angela.
“Thirteen?” Even the experienced Inspector Russell was amazed.
It was then that Olivia made her speech about the full marks for persistence, ending with her tribute to the bucket. Tip lifted his eyes and looked at her appreciatively.
A third policeman had come in and stood waiting by the desk. “Yes?” asked the inspector.
“There’s another of them, sir. Says she belongs. A little girl.”
“Does she belong?” the inspector asked Tip.
“No,” said Tip.
“Yes,” said Sparkey.
“She’s just as wet and dirty, if that’s anything to go by, sir,” said the policeman.
The inspector asked Tip again, “You’re sure she doesn’t belong? You’re sure?”
“Yes,” said Tip.
“No,” said Sparkey.
Then Olivia spoke. “There was a little girl. I saw her.”
Tip looked at Olivia as if she were a traitor, and the inspector nodded to the policeman.
As Lovejoy came in her feet left wet marks on the floor; she might have been a bedraggled small wet sweep, except that she carried the bucket, not brushes. She had dared at last to knock at the back door at Number Eleven. “They’ve taken those boys to the police station,” said Ellen, who had answered. “They’re very naughty boys,” she had added severely.
The inspector asked Lovejoy her name—“And don’t say Mary Smith,” but Lovejoy was too chilled and tired and alarmed to have thought of that. “Tell me your name and where you live,” said the inspector.
“Lovejoy Mason. Two-hundred-and-three Catford Street.” It was so small a whisper that the inspector could hardly hear.
“Did you say ‘Lovejoy Mason’?”
“Yes.”
He spoke in an undertone to the jailer, who went out of the room and came back with some papers. The inspector took them and nodded, then looked at Lovejoy. “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “You live with a Mr. and Mrs. Combie?”
“Yes.”
“Harris,” said the inspector. It seemed odd to Olivia that a jailer could be called Harris. “Send someone down to Catford Street to see if Mrs. Combie can come.”
The jailer went to the door, and the inspector told Lovejoy to sit down. “We can go on with the boys,” he said to Angela, and listened while the constable finished his account. When it was over the inspector sat, thoughtfully drumming his fingers on the desk. “Let’s look at the bucket,” he said. Lovejoy had put it down by the desk, and he lifted it and looked at it carefully. “What made you think you weren’t stealing?” he asked Tip.
“It was dirt,” said Tip. His voice was husky and desperate, and he cleared his throat loudly in an effort to explain. It was a rude sound, and Angela raised her eyebrows. “You can’t steal dirt,” said Tip. “It—it’s—” and he remembered something he had learned about land in history lessons. “It’s common,” he said.
“It may be,” said Angela, “but in London it’s scarce and valuable.” And she said again, “You can buy it at the Army and Navy Stores, two-and-six for fourteen pounds, packed in cartons.”
Olivia made a sudden strangled noise, and all their eyes turned on her. Is she laughing? thought Lovejoy, shocked.
“Olivia, be quiet,” said Angela. “You make me ridiculous.”
“Not you, it. It’s ridiculous,” said Olivia.
The inspector was not laughing. He was looking at Tip.
“It looks very like stealing to me.” His voice was grave. “A mean kind of stealing. The gardener said you put the smaller ones over the railings to do your work for you. That’s mean, isn’t it? Then you attacked an old man carrying out his duty. You winded him and kicked him.”
“I didn’t kick him.”
“He says you did.”
“He’s a liar.”
“He kicked Sparkey.” Lovejoy had unveiled her lids and spoke straight at the inspector. “Take off your gumboot,” she commanded Sparkey, “and pull down your sock. Show them.” Sparkey peeled down his grey cotton sock, and on his lean little shin was a great mark. He showed it to the company and beamed, but once again Lovejoy was to know the overriding power of grown-ups.
“Lucas kick a child!” said Angela. “Never.”
“Not never. This morning,” said Lovejoy.
“Never laid a hand on him,” said Lucas.
“Are you sure?” asked the inspector.
“I only nabbed him,” said Lucas. “Course he didn’t like that. Don’t you listen to them, mister. That’s a bad boy,” he said vindictively, jerking his thumb at Tip.
“He’s not,” said Mr. Malone in a bellow.
“A young devil,” said Lucas. “I’ve been arter him for weeks. He’s a rough, bad boy.”
“He isn’t,” cried Lovejoy, coming up like a jack-in-the-box. “You should have seen him taking the grit out of my eye,” and as usual the thought of herself and Tip overwhelmed her with tears. “Its all my fault,” she sobbed. “He wouldn’t have been caught if I’d jumped Sparkey up, and Tip didn’t put us over the railings—at least not like you said.”
“Better let me be the one to go in,” Tip had said the first morning. “It might be dangerous.” At that time of the morning it had been only half light in the garden, night in the bushes.
“Snakes ’n tigers ’n ghosts,” Sparkey had said, his teeth chattering. “There was a girl murdered in some bushes in a garden jus’ like this.”
“I’ll go,” said Tip with a reassuring pat to Lovejoy.
The plan had been to put his raincoat, folded, on the paling spikes and use it as a pad. “Suppose it gets torn?” Lovejoy had asked with the respect she gave to clothes, but as most of the Malone clothes were torn Tip did not think it mattered.
“Hold a stake with each hand,” said Lovejoy, “and stand on the bucket.” She turned one upside down. “Spring and kneel on the top, then you can jump down”—but Tip could not get over the railings. The Malones were big and powerful but they were not made for springing. Tip could climb, pull himself up by his arms—onto the church wall, for instance—but when Lovejoy commanded, “Jump,” he could not jump; “Spring,” and he could not get off the ground.
There was a pause, a long pause; then, “It will have to be me,” Lovejoy had said in a little voice; her legs were as strong as a cricket’s; one spring and she had been up, a second later, over, but there had been another complication. When she had filled the buckets she
could not hoist them up level with the top of the railings.
“’F I could just get the handle,” said Tip, “I could lift them over.” It was no good. She could not get them up, even with Tip pulling hard on the rope. “The rope sticks,” he said. “It’s the stakes. Can’t you get it a little higher?”
“No,” said Lovejoy, panting breathlessly.
“I’ll have to put Sparkey in,” said Tip.
Sparkey had been half dead with excitement and terror as Tip lifted him up and Lovejoy lifted him down; his little legs in the shining new gumboots had kicked wildly in an effort to be helpful. Frantically he helped push up the bucket; Tip managed to grasp it and haul it higher, then brought it down heavily on the other side; some of the earth spilled out, but he managed to scoop it up from the pavement with his hands. “Now the other one,” he said, and, hoisting, stretching, and panting, Lovejoy and Sparkey had got it up.
“How’ll you get out?” whispered Tip. “You can’t get out by yourselves.”
“We’ll climb up that tree and drop down,” said Lovejoy.
“Kin Sparkey?”
“He can if I lift him.” Tip had caught Sparkey as, sternly directed by Lovejoy, he dangled from the branch; and presently, light as a cricket again, or a bird, Lovejoy had dropped down beside them.
“It was all me,” Lovejoy sobbed now, as Eve must have sobbed. “I told him what to do and he did it.” She covered her face with her hands and the tears ran out between her fingers.
“What do you say to that?” the inspector asked Tip, but Tip was furious.
“I don’t take orders from a girl,” said Tip.
“Did he?” the inspector said suddenly to Sparkey.
“No,” said Sparkey with scorn. “She wasn’t in the gang. Girls can’t be,” he said loftily to Lovejoy.
The inspector looked thoughtfully at Sparkey. “You’re too small to be in the gang, of course,” he said.
Sparkey’s ears went red. He looked as if he were going to cry. “I am in the gang, amn’t I, Tip?” he asked.