The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘It’s a great help,’ said Nicholas. The April breeze plucked at her own hair, her unpinned black hair, and tossed it around her pale face. Her lace-fronted blouse with its high collar clasping her neck, and her long skirt, were garments of respectability. He wondered how far down the road of no return she was. ‘Wouldn’t you like a steady, decently paid job?’ he asked.

  ‘Is that a joke?’ she asked.

  ‘I know a few course bookies, one of them might do me a favour. I mean a big bookie, with a reputation, not a street-corner character.’

  ‘’Ere, you’re a copper, not a bishop,’ said Linda.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘No, wait,’ said Linda, as Chapman began to wander back. ‘Ask me again next time you see me. I suppose I got to sign a statement, ain’t I? Only right now . . .’

  ‘Understood,’ said Nicholas, ‘see you again sometime.’ He went on his way with Chapman. ‘Frank, our number one bugger told Miss Shipman that her hair was like afternoon glory, that it made him feel he had the afternoon sun in his eyes.’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ said Chapman.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Off his bleedin’ chump,’ said Chapman.

  ‘We’ve got a lead,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it’s pointing us at Walworth, at a house visited by Miss Shipman on Friday night, I’m damn certain. She was walking home from it, by way of Steedman Street. Walking. So it couldn’t have been too far from Steedman Street. He has to be a man living on his own or a lodger who can admit a visitor unnoticed. Miss Shipman would have arrived in the dark and probably spent an hour or so with him. We’re committed to knocking on more doors.’ Nicholas felt then that he could justify knocking again on Mrs Emma Carter’s door.

  ‘What about the statement?’ asked Chapman.

  ‘From Linda Jennings?’

  ‘Who else? Number one witness, she is. At Rodney Road or the Yard?’

  ‘Rodney Road,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ll like to keep her out of the old man’s way.’

  ‘You got a hope,’ said Chapman.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘Mister! ’Alf a mo’!’

  It was after three o’clock, and Harry was on his way to the station, having at last made contact with the occupant of a house in Penrose Street. There was no lodger, but there was a woman who’d said yes, of course her husband was out on Friday night, he was out every bleeding night, and he’d be out for good if he didn’t start staying in a bit. Harry wormed a description out of her, and he was now taking back what he thought might be a slight lead. Bobby Reeves hurried up to him. A horse-drawn corporation water-cart trundled by, the nag’s head nodding sleepily, the cart’s rush of water cleaning the gutter.

  ‘What can I do for you, Bobby?’

  ‘Nice you asked, Mr Bradshaw, but I’m all right, thanks. It’s just I promised Mrs Wilson to give you ’er thanks for that Salvation Army stuff. Pleased ’er, it did, no end.’

  ‘Yes, I had a note from her,’ said Harry.

  ‘She’s got a new lodger,’ said Bobby. Not born yesterday, he thought he ought to mention it, what with the police enquiries that were going on.

  ‘Yes, he’s all right, Bobby,’ said Harry, who knew Mr Bates had been cleared by the Yard.

  ‘I thought I’d go an’ meet Trary out of school,’ said Bobby. ‘I thought I’d walk ’er home. She’s a bit young, y’know, best if I go an’ meet her.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Harry, cottoning on to the obvious, that Bobby had fallen for Maggie Wilson’s eldest daughter.

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ said Bobby. ‘Me mum’s finished with me services for the day, the market’s not too busy Mondays. So long, Mr Bradshaw.’

  ‘So long, Bobby.’

  ‘Trary?’ Miss Russell, meeting the girl in the corridor at the end of the day’s classes, stopped to talk to her.

  ‘Yes, Miss Russell?’

  ‘Nothing important,’ smiled Miss Russell, ‘just that you’ve been very lively today. Are things better at home?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Trary, looking a little like a boatered Alice in Wonderland in her short-skirted school dress. It showed her slender calves and black cotton yarn stockings. ‘Much better, thank you, Miss Russell.’

  ‘That’s good. You’ve been slightly woebegone lately.’

  Oh, what an interesting word, thought Trary.

  ‘Yes, mum’s been very woebegone, Miss Russell,’ she said. ‘I haven’t liked to mention it. I might have, only I don’t have impetuosity like I used to.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Miss Russell.

  ‘I had it when I was younger, I give more thought to things now before speakin’,’ said Trary. ‘Yes, everything’s a lot better at home for mum. I’ll be in ’istory class tomorrow, Miss Russell, I’ve thought of more things to say about if it was good or bad, Oliver Cromwell executin’ King Charles I. I mean good or bad for the people.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Miss Russell. ‘In fact, I can hardly wait. Off you go then, Trary.’

  Trary made for the school gate, along with scores of other girls. Outside, some girls were mingling with pupils from the adjacent boys’ school. A tall boy, cap on the back of his head, threaded his way through the throng and approached Trary.

  ‘What a relief,’ he said, ‘thought you’d got yourself lost.’

  Trary put on her haughty look.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m sure,’ she said, ‘but do I know you?’

  ‘Thought you’d say that,’ said Bobby, his grin appearing, ‘but I still thought I’d better come an’ walk you ’ome.’

  ‘Blessed sauce,’ said Trary. ‘I can walk myself home, thank you.’

  ‘Trary, who’s he?’ Jane Atkins, a flirtatious friend, pushed her question in while gazing at Bobby’s good looks.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Trary, ‘I just happened to meet him when he had a box on his head.’

  Jane giggled. ‘Oh, come on, Trary, what’s his name?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m Dick Turpin,’ said Bobby, ‘but I can’t stop, I’m walkin’ Trary ’ome. It’s my good turn for the day.’

  ‘Talkin’ me home more like,’ said Trary, but she went with him. ‘Dick Turpin, that’s a laugh. How can anyone be Dick Turpin when he’s been dead for years? Anyway, whoever you are, what d’you mean by comin’ to my school and draggin’ me off home with you?’

  ‘Well, it’s best someone walks you ’ome, Trary,’ said Bobby. They turned into St George’s Road and proceeded towards the Elephant and Castle. Apart from the open-topped trams, horse-drawn traffic predominated. A huge dray, laden with barrels of beer and pulled by two enormous shire horses, barged its way through lighter traffic, a small delivery van giving it a very wide berth. ‘Not anybody, of course,’ continued Bobby. ‘Me. I’ll do it as much as I can. Not this week, though, except today, I’ll be busy ’elping mum right up to evenin’ times. I’ll try and start bein’ regular next week. A young girl like you ought to have someone see you get home safe. Not anybody, of course. Me.’

  ‘That’s twice you’ve said that – oh, of course, now I know who you are, you’re that talkin’ boy. I think your name’s Nobby or Robbie or something. Well, I hope I’m not goin’ to suffer all the way home. Some of us like to do a bit of talkin’ ourselves, you know, you can go dumb if you’re not allowed to or someone won’t let you.’

  ‘I’m glad that won’t ’appen to you, Trary, I like – ’

  ‘Have you ever thought you might turn into an actual talkin’ machine that’s got to be oiled at least once a week?’ asked Trary, her satchel swinging to her springy walk. ‘You’ll probably take to drink and oil yourself like that. It wouldn’t surprise me if you ended up like a drunk talkin’ machine.’

  ‘Actu’lly,’ said Bobby, ‘I’ve got too much respect for me future than to pour drink into meself. A fat lot of use I’d be to meself if – ’

  ‘Now you’re arguin’,’ said Trary. ‘You don’t think I want to walk home with a talkin’ an
d arguin’ boy, do you? That sort of thing can turn a girl woebegone.’

  ‘Woe what?’ Bobby asked the question admiringly.

  ‘Yes, you may well ask,’ said Trary. ‘It’s doom and gloom, if you must know.’

  A West Square boy passed them, turning his head to wink at her.

  ‘Trying to make me jealous, Trary?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, you awake today, Charlie Figgins?’ she said.

  ‘Now then, cheeky,’ he said, and went on.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ asked Bobby.

  ‘I happen to have lots of friends,’ said Trary. ‘I’m already well sought after, if you must know.’

  ‘Sought after for what?’ asked Bobby.

  ‘Bobby Reeves, are you arguin’ again?’

  ‘No, askin’,’ said Bobby. ‘I don’t like not askin’ when I don’t know something. If you don’t know something, it’s best to find out what it is, or you stay ignorant. I don’t like stayin’ ignorant, specially about what you’re sought after for. I mean, if it’s something interestin’, I might want to do some soughtin’ after meself.’

  ‘Soughtin’ after? You can’t say soughtin’ after, you daft boy, there’s no such thing. You mean seekin’ after.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘What d’you mean, what?’ Trary, on top of her form, was scoffing as they approached the busy junction of the Elephant and Castle, where the trams clanged and rattled over intersecting lines. ‘What’s what?’

  ‘How do I know if you don’t say?’ Bobby’s grin was broad. What a girl. Best he’d ever met. And big brown eyes as well. ‘I keep askin’, don’t I, what it is your friends are seekin’ after.’

  ‘I don’t like to sound vain,’ said Trary, ‘but it ’appens to be my growin’ beauty, which I’m keepin’ to myself. So just remember I don’t do kissin’ or cuddlin’ or holdin’ hands.’

  They entered the subway that would take them to the Walworth Road. Descending the steps, Bobby said, ‘Well, I like yer growin’ beauty, Trary, I noticed it as soon as we met, but as I also like yer for bein’ nice, I won’t do any kissin’ or cuddlin’ with you till you ask.’

  ‘Till I what?’ Trary emitted a scornful laugh. Its echo travelled lightly around the tunnel. ‘You’ve got a hope, Bobby Reeves, who wants to be kissed an’ cuddled by a cheeky devil like you? And you haven’t said what you mean by comin’ to meet me when you weren’t asked to.’

  ‘Well, I thought I ought,’ said Bobby, ‘an’ Constable Bradshaw said what a good idea.’

  ‘Oh, did he really?’ Trary sounded as if a good idea from Constable Bradshaw was a good idea for everybody. ‘Isn’t he a nice man?’ They ascended the steps to the Walworth Road, and the sunlight brightened her shabby boater as they emerged from the subway. ‘Were you talkin’ to him about me?’

  ‘Well, I did tell ’im that you only bein’ a young girl, I’d best go and walk you safely ’ome,’ said Bobby, dodging a large oncoming fat man. The pavement was crowded at this point, and the voluminous skirts of women, almost sweeping the ground, took up as much room as swaying, moving tents. ‘Mr Bradshaw offered me ’is opinion that it was a good idea. We didn’t like to think of you gettin’ lost.’

  ‘Lost? Lost? Me? Comin’ home from school? You’ve got bats in the belfry, Bobby Reeves, d’you know that? And what a blessed cheek, givin’ Mr Bradshaw the idea I’m daft enough to get lost walkin’ home. D’you want a punch in the eye?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, Trary, no, I don’t, specially not in front of people. Besides, it wouldn’t look nice, would it, a young girl goin’ in for punchin’.’

  Oh, I’ll have hysterics in a minute, thought Trary, but no, I’m not going to have them in front of him. ‘I’ll have you know I’m nearly fourteen,’ she said, ‘an’ that I help mum with cookin’ and bakin’, and make pastry as well.’

  ‘Can you do all that, Trary?’ Bobby’s admiration grew. ‘That’s it, then, I know I’ll never get to meet a girl I’d want to marry more than you.’

  ‘You what?’ Trary bobbed around a stout party, female, and sprang into step again with her talking boy. ‘Did you say marry?’

  ‘I don’t mean now, we’re not old enough.’

  ‘Crikey, what a blessed relief,’ said Trary, ‘and what a nerve.’

  ‘Well, a man’s got to think about ’is future,’ said Bobby, ‘and about who’s goin’ to be ’is future wife. You can’t not think about it.’ A couple of ragamuffin kids scooted by, each clutching a currant bun. From a little way back, an irate woman assistant yelled at them from a baker’s shop.

  ‘Oh, yer little pinchin’ perishers, come back!’

  But the kids, running pell-mell, disappeared.

  ‘They’re hungry, that’s what,’ said Trary. ‘You were sayin’, Bobby Reeves?’

  ‘Yes, you can’t not think about a future wife,’ said Bobby. ‘You got to consider it serious. If you don’t, you end up lookin’ in a mirror, and all that’s starin’ at you is wrinkles and a bald loaf of bread. Yes, and a lonely jam tart as well.’

  ‘Oh, you Bobby!’ Trary shrieked with laughter. Passing people looked and smiled. ‘You’ll make me die a death, you will.’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ said Bobby, but he was grinning, all the same. ‘It won’t make me laugh if I end up with just wrinkles, no hair and no-one to cook pastry for me.’

  Trary shrieked again. The driver of a horse-drawn van cracked his whip playfully at her and called, ‘Good lively young ’un you are, gel.’ Trary waved.

  ‘There,’ said Bobby, ‘didn’t I say you were only young?’

  ‘It’s not my fault you’re daft,’ said Trary, ‘an’ could you kindly spare me more talkin’? Did Mr Bradshaw mention my mum?’

  ‘He said he ’ad a nice note from her.’

  ‘Did he? D’you think my mum’s nice?’

  ‘Not ’alf,’ said Bobby, ‘if I was old enough and you were still too young, I wouldn’t mind marryin’ her instead. She’s got nice looks and a nice figure.’

  ‘Oh, you’re cheekier all the time,’ said Trary. ‘Boys your age shouldn’t talk about my mum’s figure. D’you really think it’s nice, though?’

  ‘Well, I like bosoms,’ said Bobby. ‘I think every woman should ’ave one, which they ’ave, mostly. I can hardly wait till you’re a woman, Trary. My ma’s a woman, y’know, and we’re all proud of ’er bosom. Then there’s me Aunt Ada, hers is renowned, accordin’ to me dad.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know I’ll ever get home alive,’ gasped Trary, as they passed the handsome town hall. ‘I never heard any boy take such liberties.’

  ‘I’m only talkin’ about what’s natural,’ said Bobby. ‘Bosoms are natural. Well, on women they are. When you’re a woman – ’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ breathed Trary, who had never enjoyed herself so much with any boy, ‘don’t you dare say it, Bobby Reeves, or I’ll push you under a tram.’ They turned into Larcom Street. ‘It’s private.’

  ‘It wouldn’t feel private to me, bein’ pushed under a tram in public,’ said Bobby.

  ‘I mean talkin’ to a girl about – well, it’s private.’ Trary, whose girlish bosom was budding nicely, was actually pink. ‘Mr Bradshaw wouldn’t talk private.’

  ‘He might to yer mum,’ said Bobby, ‘considerin’ she’s got lovely mince pies as well.’

  ‘Yes, I think so too,’ said Trary.

  A surging bunch of street kids, out of school, stopped to watch the approach of her and Bobby. Some of them began a singing yell of doggerel:

  Walkin’ up the garden, wiv ’er Charlie darlin’,

  ’E’s a lad, she’s a gel, they ain’t got a farvin’.

  Upsadaisy, yer a lady, kiss us in yer parlour,

  eIf yer don’t, we’ll run an’ tell, we’ll run an’ tell yer farver!

  Trary’s nose went high in the air, and she passed the kids as aloofly as a duchess. Bobby grinned at them.

  In Charleston Street, Maggie was out at her gate, looking all ways, Daisy wit
h her. Seeing Trary and Bobby, she smiled.

  ‘Hello, Bobby, did you just meet Trary comin’ home from school?’

  ‘Walked ’er all the way, Mrs Wilson. It’s best for her at her age. I’ll – ’

  ‘Here we go,’ said Trary.

  ‘Yes, I’ll do it as much as I can from next week, Mrs Wilson,’ said Bobby. ‘I help me mum with her stall, that’s me job at present, and I can get time off most afternoons, except this week, when I’ll be out pickin’ up loads of new seconds for her.’

  ‘Is Trary goin’ to ’ave Bobby as ’er nice boy, Mum?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘He’ll be lucky,’ said Trary. ‘What you doin’ out here, Mum?’

  ‘Well, I’m a bit bothered, love,’ said Maggie, the sun bringing little golden glints to her hair. ‘Mr Bates took our laundry to the Bagwash this mornin’, and I ’aven’t seen him since.’

  ‘Well!’ said Trary.

  ‘Crikey, yer new lodger’s nicked yer washin’, Mrs Wilson?’ said Bobby. ‘I’m not standin’ for that. You’re me most likeable lady friend. I know Trary’s me girl, but that don’t mean I don’t ’ave a fond likin’ for you. I’ll go and find Constable Bradshaw.’

  ‘’E’s comin’,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Mr Bradshaw?’ said Trary gladly, and turned. But the man striding along the street towards them was Mr Bates. His smile was one of pleasure as he spotted what looked like a reception committee. He arrived at the gate, a large parcel under his arm, another in his hand, held by its string.

  ‘Mr Bates, what ’appened?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘Met some old friends from old haunts, yer know,’ he said. ‘Might I now deliver your clean laundry?’

  ‘But that’s not bagwash stuff in those parcels,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Ah well, the fact is, Mrs Wilson, I took the liberty of havin’ it all laundered. You just say if it’s too much of a liberty, only knowin’ you’ve got yer hands full most of the time, I thought let the laundry take care of everything for once, eh?’

  Maggie looked uncertain. Trary looked unresponsive. Bobby studied the new lodger. Well, he thought, he’s a handsome bloke for Mrs Wilson to have around, but I don’t reckon Trary’s blissful about it.