‘Bless you, Tommy,’ said Vi, ‘and we’ll see this rotten old war through, won’t we?’
‘You can say that twice over,’ said Tommy.
‘Oh, bother it,’ said Alice at the sound of the front door knocker being smartly hammered. She was studying in the parlour, books and writing pad, inkwell and blotting paper, covering the table. During the preceding week she had read her way through all volumes of the Forsyte Saga, and the author’s subtle darts at the morals and attitudes of the hidebound dynasty had not been lost on her. At the same time, she had come to like many of the characters, and to feel empathy with their outlook.
Her mum being out, visiting her ageing parents, Alice had to answer the door herself. She did so fretfully.
A gangly young man in a boiler suit stood on the doorstep. Bareheaded, with black hair and the visage of a gypsy, he was as dark as any villainous squire of Victorian melodrama. This aspect, however, was offset by the twinkle in his eye. He carried a toolbox in one hand, and held a smoker’s pipe in the other. Alice thought him about twenty-five and eligible for the Army.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Och, guid morning to ye, young missus,’ he said.
A Scot?
‘I’m a miss,’ said Alice.
‘You’re no’ Mrs Adams?’
‘Miss Adams,’ said Alice. ‘What is your business?’
‘Weel now, ye’ve a suspected gas leak in your airing cupboard, which a Mr Adams of this address reported by phone to the board this morning at the time of eight-ten.’
‘Oh, yes, that’s right,’ said Alice. ‘My father phoned just before he left for his office.’ She could more correctly have said factory.
‘Shall I step in, Miss Adams?’
‘Yes – no, wait,’ said Alice, thinking of petty crooks who were taking advantage of circumstances brought about by the war. Houses temporarily vacated because of nearby unexploded bombs, damaged houses under repair by Government-sponsored gangs, and houses empty because housewives were doing war work, all offered opportunities to shifty-minded men with no scruples whatever. ‘I think I should see your credentials,’ she said.
‘My credentials?’ The gangly young Scot laughed.
‘What’s funny?’ asked Alice, stiffening.
‘Weel now, Miss Adams, this being a devil of a war for ladies, wi’ no give or take, and lassies dancing their cares away at the Lyceum Ballroom, a man’s credentials these days dinna strictly amount to what’s on a piece of paper.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Alice, and she didn’t. She was intellectual but unworldly. ‘Are you trying to confuse me?’
‘Miss Adams, I’m Fergus MacAllister—’
‘Who?’
‘Dinna lay the blame on me, Miss Adams, it’s my grandfather’s name. I’m here from the South-Eastern Gas Board to try to trace your suspected gas leak, and if ye’ll let me in I’ll go about the work as quiet as a moose.’
‘Moose?’
‘Aye.’
Oh, mouse. His Scottish accent wasn’t broad, but it was there. She quite liked the Scottish accent, it gave character of a pleasant kind to English, providing it wasn’t too broad. She gave him another look. He smiled and his teeth gleamed. Alice had a flashing mental picture of a villainous Rob Roy laying an ambush.
She put that aside as absurd and said, ‘Well, I suppose it’ll be all right if I let you in.’
‘If the gas isn’t turned off, I’d no’ recommend closing the door on me,’ he said.
‘My father turned it off before he left,’ said Alice, and stood aside. Fergus MacAllister stepped in and surveyed the handsome hall, half-panelled in oak.
‘Mansions and marble halls,’ he said reflectively. There was no envy about him, however. ‘Will you lead the way, Miss Adams?’
Alice took him upstairs to the first floor landing. She showed him the airing cupboard, which Vi had emptied of laundry in anticipation of the call. He set down his box of tools and examined pipes.
‘Don’t forget the gas is turned off,’ she said.
‘I’m no’ forgetting,’ said Fergus. ‘I’ll go down and restore the flow.’
Down he went and out of the house to the gas main situated to one side of the drive. When he was back at the airing cupboard, Alice came out of her bedroom.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said.
‘Aye.’
But she lingered, watching him for some minutes before she returned to her bedroom, from where she could listen. There were warnings all over about keeping one’s house safe from the wartime crooks. Gasman Fergus MacAllister might be genuine, but he might not, and if he was going to be as quiet as a mouse he could be out of the house with his box full of stolen items without her hearing a thing. Unless she stayed as close as possible. She left her bedroom door open. She listened. She heard him whistling, she heard him tapping. Then she heard nothing. Out she went on quick feet. He was there, however, head inside the airing cupboard, a wet finger running over a pipe joint. Hearing her, he lifted his head out and turned. His pipe was in his mouth. He took it out.
‘Ye’re wanting me aboot something, Miss Adams?’ he asked, and Alice thought his half-smile quite evil.
‘Are you smoking that pipe close to a gas leak?’ she asked.
‘Weel now, Miss Adams, leaking gas and a burning pipe don’t make guid companions, so I’m just sucking it. And there’s a leak, that’s certain.’
‘Well, please find it,’ said Alice, and went back into her bedroom. She was sure she should keep an eye on him. Yes, at his age and his health and strength, why wasn’t he in uniform? Was he a deserter, or was a gas maintenance man in a reserved occupation? She heard him whistling again, a murmurous whistle, and she heard him say something.
Then silence.
Alice fidgeted. Her studying could wait, she had the whole of the summer, and she gave vent to her suspicions by appearing on the landing again. Fergus MacAllister was down on his knees, head deep inside the airing cupboard. His tool box was open, and there was very little room in it for stolen items.
‘Have you found it?’ she asked.
‘I’ve a wee smell up my nose,’ he said, his voice emerging muffledly.
‘Yes, both my parents were certain there was a leak,’ said Alice. ‘How long will it take you to fix it?’
‘There’s a wee hairline fracture in this T-joint.’
‘Can’t you fit a new one?’
Out came his dark head. It bumped against the bottom of the padded hot water boiler on the way. He rubbed at his thick black hair, and made an untidy mop of it.
‘Aye, I’ll have to, but it’s an old pipe system, y’ken, and I dinna have the right kind of replacement joint in my toolbox,’ he said, looking up at her. Alice, neat in a plain, simple dress that was in tune with her studiousness, returned his look with one of suspicion.
‘I consider that inconvenient,’ she said.
‘I’m mortified, Miss Adams,’ he said, but Alice didn’t think he was.
‘Your people must know how old our system is,’ she said, ‘and they should have made sure you brought the right kind of spares.’
‘It’s the war, y’ken,’ said Fergus. ‘Shortage of staff, shortage of spares for systems going back to before the ’14–18 war, and priority call-outs to incidents. But cheer up, Miss Adams—’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Alice.
‘Aye, there’s a silver lining,’ said Fergus. ‘First, I’ll apply a sealing agent to the joint, which will stop the leak for at least thirty days.’
‘That’s a month,’ said Alice.
‘Then when I get back to the depot sometime today, I’ll ransack the stores for a T-joint that’ll fit. I’ll call here again tomorrow. You can use the gas in the meantime.’
‘I don’t think the Gas Board would consider that procedure in our best interests,’ said Alice, ‘and perhaps not even correct. Gas is dangerous.’
‘I’ll no’ argue wi’ that, Miss Adams,’ said
Fergus, ‘it’s powerful stuff when it’s on the loose, like an escaped convict’s pickaxe.’ Rummaging through his toolbox, he asked, ‘By the way, are you a school-teacher, Miss Adams, or a lay preacher?’
‘No, I am not,’ said Alice, ‘and I don’t know why you should ask such a question.’
‘It’s no’ a great matter,’ he said, and his head disappeared into the cupboard again. He applied the sealing agent to the affected T-joint. ‘Just that ye’ve a fine delivery, Miss Adams.’ His voice travelled hollowly around the cupboard.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Alice.
‘You speak your words fine and clear,’ said Fergus. ‘There, that’s the wee job done for the time being.’ His head re-emerged, he wiped his hands on a duster from his toolbox, put it back, closed the box and came to his feet. Whether it was dust from the cupboard or not, his dark features looked darker and his teeth whiter as he smiled. Alice suddenly felt herself dangerously alone in the house. ‘Will I leave the gas on, or turn it off, Miss Adams?’
‘I wish you’d been able to replace the joint instead of having to come back tomorrow,’ said Alice.
‘It’s nae bother,’ said Fergus.
‘I would prefer you to turn the gas off at the main.’
‘Och, aye, I’ll do that, then,’ he said. ‘Guid day to you, Miss Adams.’
‘Good morning,’ she said, and followed him downstairs to make sure he left the house. He opened the front door and turned to her.
‘Has it been a grieving war for you?’ he asked.
‘Do you mean it’s been joyful for some?’ she countered.
‘I’m just thinking ye’re a serious young lassie,’ he said, and left.
Really, what an obnoxious man, thought Alice. She watched as he uncovered the gas main and turned it off, replaced the cover and went on his way down the drive. He walked like a gangling cowboy, she thought.
She phoned the Gas Board, gave her name and address, and asked if one of their maintenance men was a Scot called Fergus MacAllister.
‘Pardon?’ said the woman clerk.
‘Fergus MacAllister, is he one of your maintenance men?’ asked Alice.
‘Never heard of anyone with a name like that.’
‘Well,’ said Alice, ‘let me tell you—’
‘Oh, wait, d’you mean Mac the Bandit?’
‘What?’
‘MacAllister, yes, of course, so sorry, only no-one, even the Super, calls him anything but Mac, or Mac the Bandit, and I’m a bit new here, anyway. D’you have a query we can help you with, Miss Adams?’
‘No, never mind,’ said Alice. ‘No, wait. Why do you call him Mac the Bandit?’
‘Oh, I can’t discuss personal matters, madam.’
‘No, of course not, goodbye,’ said Alice, and put the phone down. She put two and two together, and decided the man had been given the nickname by his workmates because he looked like a Mexican of the bandit kind.
When her mother came home later, she told her of the man’s call, what he had said about the leak, what he had done and what he was going to do. Vi said that was all right, then, as long as he brought the new joint tomorrow. Alice kept quiet about the suspicions she had had of him.
The villainous-looking Scotsman reappeared during the afternoon of the following day, a wet and windy one, and Alice considered it bad luck that she was alone again, her mother out shopping. For all that the Gas Board had confirmed him to be genuine, Alice simply did not think him incapable of quietly lifting an object or two.
However, he brought the necessary T-joint, addressed her with cheerful politeness, put his head into the airing cupboard again, and did his work whistling ‘Lili Mariene’. Alice watched him. He broke off his whistling to ask her why she was at home.
‘I don’t think that is any business of yours,’ she said.
‘Curiosity, y’ken,’ he said, still working away.
‘It killed the cat,’ said Alice. ‘Is yours a reserved occupation, by the way?’
‘Come again?’ he said, and blew on the newly fixed joint.
‘Well, you aren’t in uniform, are you?’ she said.
He turned his head and looked up at her, a strange expression on his face, and Alice knew she had committed an error that now discomfited her.
‘Nor you, Miss Adams,’ said Fergus, and finished his work.
‘I’m sorry, that was unfair of me,’ she said.
‘Och, dinna mind yoursel’,’ he said, ‘ye’re young yet.’ He came to his feet, picked up his toolbox, and put his empty pipe between his teeth. He took it out again to say, ‘I’ll turn on the main.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alice, ‘and thanks for fixing everything.’
‘Nae bother,’ he said, and she followed him down the stairs. He eyed her when he reached the front door, his twinkle back. ‘The war’s a serious business for all of us, I don’t doubt, but d’ye go dancing at the Lyceum a time or two?’
‘I do not,’ said Alice.
‘Will you come with me sometime?’
‘Certainly not,’ she said, ‘I don’t care for that at all.’
‘Ye’re a sad lassie,’ he said, and left.
Alice closed the door sharply on him.
She spoke to her dad about him that evening. Tommy shook his head at her.
‘Alice, you asked him why he wasn’t in uniform and turned down his invitation to go dancing?’
‘I apologized for the one thing, I considered I’d given him no encouragement with the other,’ said Alice.
‘Alice, me love,’ said Tommy, ‘you talk sometimes like a young lady professor, and you’re not at university yet, nor seen much of life.’
‘Dad, I know you left school at fourteen and began to see life from then on,’ said Alice. ‘I’ll begin to see it in a different way when I start at university.’
‘Of course you will, love,’ said Vi.
‘And good luck,’ said Tommy. ‘But I know the bloke. Well, I know about him from a bloke who knows him, and talked about him at the pub.’ Denmark Hill boasted its own pub. ‘He was in uniform once, he was in the battles that led to Dunkirk. He was with that Highland Division that tried to hold back Rommel’s army and got surrounded, most of the survivors ending up as prisoners. He was lucky enough to be stretchered out of the battle before the Jerries cut the division off. He’d been badly wounded. Full of shrapnel. They took a lot out, but ’ad to leave some in. Some of what’s still there pops out through his skin every so often. What’s still left in, well, it’s a problem, I suppose. He had to leave the Army, of course. They invalided him out, so it must be a problem. Mind, I was told he never looks as if he’s carrying some lead weights, and the Gas Board didn’t argue about giving ’im a job. Pity you didn’t act a bit more gracious, Alice.’
‘Tommy, Alice didn’t know any of that, and come to that, nor did I,’ protested Vi.
‘Well, that’s true,’ said Tommy. ‘Yup, true enough. Live and learn, I suppose, eh? Eh, Alice?’
‘Yes, live and learn, Dad,’ said Alice, feeling about five inches tall.
She bit her lip.
Chapter Twenty-Four
PATSY WAS TICKLED at the way Daniel and his family set about Sunday tea, everyone seated around the dining-room table laid with a snowy white cloth. She hadn’t imagined anything so formal, with Daniel’s mother and grandma obviously in their best Sunday outfits, Paula and Phoebe in Sunday frocks, Daniel in a suit, and his father and grandpa likewise. Not that they all sat up stiff and stuffy, no, everyone talked and reached and passed things and ate, while Granny, with a huge teapot in front of her, addressed the guest hospitably from time to time.
‘Another slice of bread and butter, Miss Kirk?’
Miss Kirk, would you believe, what a cute old lady.
‘More shrimps, Miss Kirk? I must say my son Sammy has managed to get hold of some nice ones.’
I’m fascinated, thought Patsy, I never knew people as old-fashioned as this were still living.
‘More
tea, Miss Kirk?’
I’ll drown in it.
‘Is the cake to your liking, Miss Kirk? I must admit it don’t have the kind of ingredients I’m used to when baking, but that’s what comes of being at war. I knew that man Hitler would lead us into it, I can’t remember how many times I said so to my husband and my only oldest son Boots, but of course no-one took any notice, and look what’s happened.’
Boots? Was there someone called that in this family?
‘Might I ask what you have for Sunday teas in America, Miss Kirk?’
‘Oh, I guess we don’t celebrate Sundays like this, Granny, and we mostly crisp-fry our shrimps, which come a bit bigger.’
‘They’re prawns?’ said Mr Finch.
‘Excuse me?’ said Patsy, wearing a sweater and skirt, which looked fetching enough, but casual compared to Sunday frocks.
‘We call big shrimps prawns,’ said Daniel.
‘What’s them?’ asked Phoebe of Paula.
‘Prawns,’ said Paula.
‘Yes, but what’s them?’ asked Phoebe.
‘What’s prawns, Grandpa?’ asked Paula.
‘Oh, let’s say adult shrimps,’ said Mr Finch.
‘Crikey,’ whispered Phoebe, ‘what’s them?’
‘Grown-up shrimps, I expect,’ said Paula, ‘like Patsy has in America.’
‘Have another slice of cake,’ said Daniel to Patsy, and pushed the stand towards her.
‘Well, gee whiz, thanks, I will,’ said Patsy, and took a slice. It was great. ‘Excuse me, Granny, could I—’
‘Oh, more tea?’ offered Chinese Lady.
‘No more tea, thanks,’ said Patsy, ‘I’d just like to have the recipe for the cake.’
‘Well, bless me,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘d’you do baking, then?’
‘Sure I do, for my Pa,’ said Patsy.
‘Then I must say I’m very admiring of you,’ said Chinese Lady.
‘I shop, cook, bake and do housework for me and Pa,’ said Patsy.
‘Well, I never,’ said Chinese Lady.
‘I’m an also-ran,’ said Daniel, ‘I only plant potatoes.’
‘We’re happily awaiting results, Daniel,’ said Mr Finch.
‘I’m impressed, Daniel, believe me,’ said Sammy, ‘and so I am with Patsy as her dad’s daily help.’
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