by Pip Granger
‘We don’t know who hit you – the one who left the puir moggy on my table, doubtless, and the note. But who the miscreant is, we still have no idea. George Grubb was here. He’ll be wanting to speak to you when you feel up to it. We all seem to have made educated guesses, yes, but certainties, no. I think whoever it is, found themselves in possession of a dead cat and took advantage of that fact. It was already dead, I’m sure; it was stiff as a board when we found it, and rigor mortis takes a wee while to set in.’ That was a sort of comfort, anyway, that no-one had actually killed the poor, wretched thing.
Another question sprang to mind, this one-for Frankie. ‘So why are you here?’
‘I’m here to find out who has got it in for Miss Makepeace,’ he replied. ‘Like I said, Joe sent me – well, Mrs Joe really. I told you, I’m from up West.’
‘Who is Joe?’ I asked. ‘And this Mrs Joe, is she his wife?’
‘Joe’s my boss, and Mrs Joe’s his mum.’
‘What’s he got to do with Zinnia?’
‘You’re a nosy little piece, aren’t you?’
‘Who are you calling a “piece”?’ I demanded shirtily.
‘You, egghead,’ said Frankie, who laughed heartily at his own wit.
‘Children, children. Behave, do,’ pleaded Zinnia, vegetable knife in one hand and a tomato in the other. ‘I can see you’ll do fine, Zelda, if you’re fit to argue with the man, but I think you’d better stay the night just the same, to be on the safe side.
‘Maltese Joe is an acquaintance of mine. I have treated his mother for more than thirty years. She gets headaches and I give her feverfew, among other things. She’s inclined to be a touch liverish,’ she told me, as if that explained everything.
I insisted I had to be at work the next day, because I was still in the doghouse for my insubordination. Frankie found that hugely amusing, and mentioned that my mouth obviously matched my nose for size. Cheeky bleeder! Zinnia thought about work for a while, then grudgingly said it would be all right as long as I didn’t feel either sick or dizzy in the morning or during the day.
‘If you do, you must arrange to be brought back here or to the hospital straight away. Is that understood?’ She had her schoolmistress voice on, so I knew she was serious. According to her, concussion, however mild, had to be watched for twenty-four hours, ‘just in case’. In case of what, she didn’t say, and I preferred not to ask. But I agreed to do as she asked.
‘Good, that’s settled then. Now, how about a game of cards?’
Zinnia, Frankie and I played pontoon for the rest of the evening and, despite the cat, the note and the undoubted fear they’d brought up for Zinnia and for me, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I could see that Zinnia was anxious about me and her invisible enemy, but she did her best to hide it. She was not one to display her feelings: she was a Scot, after all. Stoical types, the Scots. I put it down to the salty porridge, that and their climate. According to Zinnia, a Scottish winter is not for the faint-hearted. The Germans called the Highland regiments ‘the ladies from hell’ in the Great War, on account of the kilts, their bloodcurdling war cries, the eerie wail of the bagpipes and the fact that they would not stop coming, once they charged over the top of a trench. Hebridean seamen were viewed in pretty much the same way by their fellow Jack Tars. Ronnie reckoned they were the best sailors in the world, but it didn’t do to cross one.
‘They close ranks, dolly, and they even have their own language. There is no more chilling sight than a bunch of Highlanders lined up against you. I’ve even seen the Russkies quail, and they usually think they’re armour plated after a couple of swigs of vodka, but they won’t take on those Scotties, not if they can help it.’
So, Zinnia was being a Scot and not showing how worried she was, but I could tell anyway. However, I felt safe with Frankie there. He turned out to be a good laugh and a nice enough bloke – for a henchman that is, because I reckon that was definitely what he was.
Just as I was settling down for the night, Zinnia came into my room and sat on a chair beside the bed. She had a good look at my eyes and asked me if I felt sick, dizzy, disorientated, anything like that? I said no, just a bit scared. Not for our safety that night – I had every confidence in Frankie – but scared in general. I could feel things coming to a head, all sorts of things. Exactly what things, was harder to pin down.
‘I’ve been dreaming again, Zin,’ I told her, ‘ever since I heard Charlie was coming home for another leave. I can feel this awful dread, but I’m not sure what about. Charlie, yes, it’s about him I’m sure, at least in part. But there’s this dead cat business – I thought whoever was out to get you had given it up, but they haven’t, have they? What are you going to do, Zin?’
I didn’t think she was going to answer me, she took so long about it, but in the end she said, ‘Well, to begin with, I shall put some trust in that young man in my kitchen. He swears to me he’ll harm no-one, just “put the frighteners on”, as he so graphically puts it. Sure enough, we have to do something, and the police have made no headway in their investigations at all. I think they’re more worried about guns and grenades at the minute.’ She sighed, eyes far away, seeing something beyond the little bedroom.
‘However, the cat was several steps too far.’ She spoke firmly, but I could tell that she was almost as shaken as I was, underneath her calm exterior. ‘And you hen, how are you – really?’
‘I’ve decided that my future doesn’t lie with Charlie,’ I said. You could’ve knocked me down with a feather. I hadn’t realized I’d come to a decision. It must have been the bash on the head; it had finally knocked some sense into me. I knew now that I could not spend the rest of my life living with a man who frightened me. We didn’t even like each other that much, and I was sure that we could both do better if we gave it up. All it took was for one of us to stand on their hind legs and say so, and that someone might as well be me. It was time I took control. I was sick of being pushed around: by Charlie, by Dad and by Mrs Dunmore.
Zinnia nodded slowly. ‘Aye, I thought you’d come to it in the end. Where do you see your future?’
‘I dunno. But not with Charlie and probably not round here. If I go, then it’s best if I make a new start in a new place.’ I hadn’t known I’d been thinking that, either; it just popped out as I was talking with Zinnia. It seemed my brains had been busy without me, planning, deciding and moving right along.
‘You’re probably right, hen. I think it’s difficult to see too far ahead, with all the general upheaval, but the world is changing. Soon, we’ll not recognize it. I’ll be out of a job, if there’s anything in this idea of a National Health Service Digby’s been telling me about. If it comes to pass, I think it’ll be a good thing, even if I do end up in the scrap.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I’ll be the last Makepeace in Paradise Gardens, that’s for certain.’
Then she laughed gently to herself. ‘But I’ve got a good few years in me yet, to make a nuisance of myself. Time to sleep now, hen. You’ll sleep without dreams this night, Zelda,’ she told me, and passed her hand in front of my eyes, once, twice and three times.
And I was gone, out like a light, sparko. When I woke in the morning, I was refreshed and almost full of beans. As I was getting washed and dressed, I thought about the night before and it crossed my mind to wonder when Mr Burlap had had the opportunity to talk to Zinnia about the Labour Party’s ideas. I had been so busy worrying about everything else, I had quite forgotten about the little mystery of Zinnia and Mr Burlap.
I made up my mind to grill Frankie for information while he was handy and I had the chance. He’d be an easier nut to crack than Zinnia herself, because I got the feeling he’d taken a bit of a shine to me and, as he said, I was a ‘nosy little piece’. A very nosy little piece, as it happens. I love other people’s business; it takes my mind off mine, and anyway, it’s usually more interesting.
40
George Grubb made me late for work. He’d arrived bright and early and just in time to
join Zinnia, Frankie and me for breakfast. PC Grubb wasn’t called ‘Nosher’ Grubb for nothing, as his huge, belted belly testified. George had a beat that passed several tea stands, caffs and friendly widows, and he did not stint himself when it came to being ‘sociable’.
George’s sociability was a double-edged sword. It could be hard on a person’s rations, but on the other hand, there were few faces on his manor that George didn’t know. Faces gossiped. It was in their nature; that’s why God gave ’em mouths, according to George. He raised his head from his steaming cup and took a bite of the thick hunk of bread and jam he held in his plump, red fingers. Everything about George was plump and red, except for the top of his head. When his helmet came off, it revealed a bald and shiny dome. All the Grubbs lost their hair early; his brothers were just the same.
‘So, Mrs Fluck,’ he said round a mouthful of bread, ‘would you recognize him again, the bloke you saw leaving via …’ – he paused and glanced at his notebook – ‘the front door?’ He took another swig of tea.
I said I didn’t think so, but that wasn’t entirely true. I kept getting flashbacks, like little snippets of film, or a photograph, of that back against the light flooding through the door. There was something very familiar about it. It was definitely someone I knew, but I couldn’t think who. It was like seeing the girl from the Odeon on the street, away from her ticket booth: you know you know the face well but can’t quite place it. Well, I knew I knew that back, but the name of its owner just wouldn’t come.
George turned to Zinnia. ‘So let me get this straight. First, someone broke in and swapped your furniture around, but you didn’t trouble to report it because you thought it was a practical joke. Then your shed was set alight, which you did report, arson being no joke. Then your cats went missing; again, no report because there was nothing to report, they could’ve just wandered. But when you found one of them with an airgun pellet in it, you did report that. And now, a nasty note, a dead cat – not yours – and a friend bashed over the noggin on your doorstep. Have I got it all?’
Zinnia nodded. George then turned to Frankie, who was eating an egg sandwich while trying not to draw too much attention to himself and failing dismally. ‘And your friend here?’ he asked innocently, chomping the last of his jammy wedge.
‘Is my nephew, Francis. He’s here to look after his old aunt,’ lied Zinnia, barefaced and as if to the manner born. I could quite see why Frankie’s origins were best kept from George Grubb, but Zinnia telling whoppers was new to me.
‘I never knew you had a nephew. Funny he’s never thought to visit before …’ began George Grubb.
‘Aye, well,’ Zinnia cut him short. ‘Things happen in families, fallings-out, you know how it is. But still, the least said, soonest mended, eh? Another jeely piece, George?’
‘A what?’ George looked bewildered and ‘Francis’ tried hard not to laugh. I looked from one to another, so completely absorbed in the goings-on that I didn’t notice the time.
‘Bread and jam. What you call a “doorstep” we call a “piece”, north of the border,’ Zinnia explained kindly. ‘Another cuppa to go with it?’
George allowed himself to be persuaded and spent the time between mouthfuls trying to find out more about Frankie. He didn’t get very far, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to. As soon as Frankie started the rounds of the boozers, snooker halls and clubs, news of his reputation, connections and credentials would go ahead of him. That was what he was there for, after all. He’d been sent to let the swine know that Zinnia had heavyweight help behind her, should the need continue to arise.
What fascinated me was how a middle-aged woman, who had spent her life caring for and healing others, had connections with West End villains. Also, how could a woman I had known all my life have this whole other side to her that I knew nothing about? What’s more, neither did Mum or Gran, I’d put money on it. I decided, there and then, to do some detecting of my own. It’d take my mind off Charlie’s impending leave and the sinister bugger who went round coshing people. I felt my lump. It was smaller, but for some reason it reminded me about the time and getting to work. I glanced at the clock and let out a small shriek – I was running very late. Seeing my panic, Frankie very kindly offered me a lift in his motor. It also handily got him away from George Grubb and his questions.
It was just as well I always kept my keys all together in my handbag, because when I arrived like Lady Muck in a real live car, I found Cook and Beryl tapping their feet on the doorstep. As I had worked there the longest, I kept the spare keys. Which wasn’t much of an honour, it just meant I had to open up if Mrs Dunmore was late or away ill. Mind you, it had hardly ever happened. She was normally a stickler for punctuality, in herself and in others.
‘Who’s your friend?’ Beryl mouthed as I fumbled with the keys. Her eyes glinted and her arched, pencilled eyebrows danced up and down in enquiry.
‘Mind your own,’ I mouthed back as I finally got the key in. I heard a clatter from the other side of the door. ‘Funny,’ I said out loud. ‘I think there was a key in the lock. The door was locked from the inside.’ I shoved the door, but it snagged on the fallen key.
Frankie pushed me and Beryl aside gently and said, ‘Allow me, ladies,’ before giving it a giant heave with his shoulder. The door crashed inwards and Frankie stumbled in after it.
I saw a pair of feet first, pointing at me from across the room. My first thought was that the bloody woman was inspecting the ovens yet again, ready to issue sarcastic comments, soda and a scrubbing brush. But then I smelt gas.
‘Stay out here a sec,’ I told Cook and Beryl, then followed Frankie into the room and hurried over to the feet. I turned the gas tap widdershins and the ominous hissing stopped. Frankie stooped and tugged gently at the legs attached to the feet. I recognized the shoes: it was definitely Mrs Dunmore. Out she slid, her back moving effortlessly along the glossy lino. Even in that grim moment, I thought it was good to know that my ceaseless scrubbing and polishing hadn’t been for nothing. All my life, in moments of stress, I have thought of silly things like that. I suppose it’s nerves, like laughing hysterically at a funeral.
The next thing I noticed was the distinctive whiff of gin, and lots of it. Mrs Dunmore reeked of the stuff, despite the hour. She must’ve been at it all night. Her eyes were closed and her face was a funny colour, sort of pale, with a touch of green around the gills. For a moment, I thought she was dead, then I saw her eyes flicker.
I thanked the God I wasn’t sure existed with sincere gusto. I might not have liked Mrs Dunmore much, but I didn’t wish the old bag dead. None of us did. Then the flickering stopped and her eyes opened and she stared up at a perfectly strange man bending over her. Bewildered, she turned to me. She tried to speak, but before the words could make it to the outside world, she was violently sick. Frankie stepped back smartly but I was a little slower and copped the lot.
‘Bloody hell!’ I squeaked. It was disgusting.
Frankie took charge. ‘Right, let’s get her out of here. You’ve turned the gas off, so open all the windows and leave the door open and it’ll clear pretty quick.’ He bent down and scooped Mrs Dunmore up as if she was as light as an empty paper bag. I looked down at my filthy, smelly clothes and realized that empty was what she was. I could testify to that. I followed Frankie and his burden out into the blessedly fresh air.
‘Phew!’ Beryl held her nose. ‘You honk of secondhand gin,’ she told me, as if I didn’t know. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ She nodded at Frankie’s back as he helped Mrs Dunmore into the back of his motor.
‘She’s been hitting the gin, it’s made her ill,’ I said shortly. I turned to Cook.
‘Can you two manage while I nip home and change my clobber? I can’t work in this state. Frankie and me’ll see to Mrs Dunmore. If you can see to this place, I’ll get back as quick as I can.’
Cook nodded. ‘Take your time, Zelda. We’ll manage. We’ll just give the blokes less grub to choose from, it’l
l cut the work down. You go and sort yourself out. We’ll see to this lot.’ She moved towards the door.
‘Oh, and Cook, don’t light a fag for a while,’ I warned her. I was rewarded by a long stare as Cook worked it out, and then she nodded slightly. It was as well that Beryl didn’t find out too much about what had just happened; she’d blab to anyone with a set of ears, and attempted suicide, if that’s what it was, was a criminal offence. So the less said, the better.
Nobody spoke much on the way back to Zinnia’s. Frankie and I agreed that Zinnia should have a look at Mrs Dunmore and we left it at that. Every now and then, we heard a snivel from the back seat, but diplomatically pretended we hadn’t. It’s hard to know what to do or say when it’s your boss who’s in a bad way. Mrs Dunmore wasn’t the sort you put an arm round, somehow.
At last, we arrived at Zinnia’s. Frankie nipped in to make sure George Grubb had left. He had, so we helped Mrs Dunmore in. She had revived a good deal in the air, and sobered up considerably since she’d dumped her load of gin all over me, but she still looked a sorry sight. So did I.
Having left Mrs Dunmore in Zinnia’s capable hands, Frankie took me home to change my clothes before going about the business he’d come to Paradise Gardens to do.
‘I gotta start asking some questions, getting some answers. Joe’s gonna want to see some progress,’ he explained as he dropped me off on my doorstep. ‘So I can’t give you a lift back to work or nothing, but if you’re quick, I can drop you back at Miss M.’s.’
He had a deal. I was anxious to know what had got into Mrs Dunmore, besides gin that is. She might not have been the friendliest person, but for all her sharp, slave-driving and sarcastic ways, she wasn’t all bad. And I always thought she seemed lonely and a bit sad.