Bobby shouted with laughter. People looked. Trary went haughty again.
‘I think I can manage to keep standin’ up,’ said Bobby, ‘in fact, I feel miles better for seein’ you, Trary. You get prettier all the time. Did you wear the silk stockings with yer Sunday frock. I bet your legs looked swish in them, I’d like to ’ave seen ’em.’
‘Oh, you blessed cheeky devil,’ said Trary, hiding every ounce of delight she felt that her talking boy was in such good form. ‘You’re talkin’ about my legs again.’
‘Yes, it’s nice you’ve got legs, Trary. I’ve seen some at the music hall, but I bet yours are better. Of course, I wouldn’t look unless you insisted. I mean, I wouldn’t mind you insistin’.
‘You’ll be lucky,’ said Trary. ‘Of all the nerve. Me insistin’? Well, I don’t know, you’ve got the sauciest talkin’ mouth I ever heard. I don’t show my legs to any boys, let alone hooligans like you, what d’you think I am?’
‘Grand, that’s what you are, Trary,’ said Bobby. ‘I was fair racked last week, thinkin’ about what might be ’appening to you with all the West Square boys chasin’ after you, and me not there to knock ’em silly. I had a real grievin’ week, what with bein’ laid low and worryin’ about you, besides not bein’ able to swallow or say much. You’re ’ardly livin’ when you can’t talk, yer know.’
‘Oh, bless my soul, poor boy,’ said Trary, hugely enjoying herself, ‘but you’re doin’ all right now, you’re pleased to say.’
‘Yes, I’m better when I don’t feel ill,’ said Bobby. ‘Don’t you worry, I’m set on lookin’ after you for always. Mind, I’m not sayin’ you’re not lucky you met me – ’
‘Lucky? Lucky?’ Trary’s spirits were high, her adrenalin flowing, her step springier than ever. ‘I’d like you to know, Bobby Reeves, that you’re just someone I met accidental on our front doorstep wearin’ a box on your head. I never heard it was lucky to do that, meetin’ a boy with a box on his head, specially a talkin’ one.’
‘Talkin’ box?’ said Bobby.
‘Talkin’ mouth,’ said Trary.
‘Good on yer, Trary, you’re better than any medicine, you are.’
They walked on and talked on, their tongues fighting each other. When they reached the baker’s on the corner of Heygate Street in the Walworth Road, Bobby stopped.
‘Now what?’ asked Trary.
‘I won’t be a tick,’ said Bobby. ‘I left something in ’ere which they’re lookin’ after for me.’ He popped into the shop. When he came out again, there was a large cardboard box on his capped head, and a bland look on his face. Trary stared at him.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, ‘you’re doin’ it again.’
‘I did’nt want to bring it all the way to yer school,’ said Bobby. ‘It’s for yer mum. I’ll carry it to her like this.’
‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ said Trary. ‘I’m not walkin’ home with any boy who’s got another box on his soppy ’ead. D’you think I want all the street kids laughin’ at me. Take it off.’
‘All right,’ said Bobby, and shifted the box to his arms. It had a lid to it.
‘What’s in it?’ asked Trary, as they resumed their walk.
‘It’s for me favourite lady’s inspection. Your mum.’
‘What’s in it, you aggravatin’ boy?’
‘You’ll see.’
When the box arrived on the kitchen table and Maggie took the lid off, a selection of the very best seconds in the way of frocks was revealed. Bobby had done an excellent sorting job with the help of his mother, and there were sizes to fit all four girls. Meg yelled with joy when Maggie said they could choose one each. Daisy and Lily goggled. Trary stared and swallowed. Oh, that Bobby, standing there all innocent-looking to hide how kind he was. She felt ever so pleased then that he hadn’t spent last week walking and talking with other girls.
Every frock was of good quality, some looking as if they’d hardly been worn. The kitchen became bright with colour as the box was emptied and there were frocks everywhere. The girls went through them all.
‘How much are they, Bobby?’ asked Maggie. ‘Or are they different prices?’
‘All the same, Mrs Wilson,’ said Bobby, ‘but mum said don’t buy what you can’t afford. I’m afraid they’re pretty pricey. Fourpence each.
‘Fourpence?’ Maggie gave him a direct look. He took his cap off and dusted it against his trousers. ‘Fourpence, Bobby?’
‘Sorry, Mrs Wilson, I know it’s a lot.’
‘You’re ’aving me on,’ said Maggie. ‘Your mum wouldn’t put any of these on her stall for less than ninepence.’
‘Well, we thought fourpence each if you buy four, one each for yer girls, and one for my young lady.’
‘Bobby, you got a young lady?’ asked Meg, holding a blue frock against herself. ‘Who is she?’
‘Trary,’ said Bobby.
‘Bless us, it’s just not believable what comes out of that boy’s mouth,’ said Trary, eyes on a lovely peach-coloured frock that looked as if it might fit her.
‘Bobby, be sensible,’ said Maggie. ‘Fourpence each can’t be fair to your mum.’
‘It’s a special price if you buy four,’ said Bobby. ‘Mum says you’ve been a good customer for years, Mrs Wilson. You can keep them till tomorrow, you can take your time. I’ll leave you to it. I’ve ’ad tonsillitis, by the way, but I was pleased I was recovered enough to start walkin’ Trary home from school again. You don’t mind I’ve decided she’s me young lady, Mrs Wilson? When she’s older, I mean.’
‘No, I don’t mind a bit,’ smiled Maggie.
‘Some hopes he’s got,’ said Trary. She saw him to the front door, her eyes very bright. ‘Thanks ever so much, Bobby, all the frocks look lovely.’
‘Well, I like you, Trary, and yer fam’ly,’ said Bobby.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Maggie accepted the price that had been offered out of friendship. She bought two frocks for each of her girls for the sum total of two shillings and eightpence. She was buoyed up by the fact that her little job would add five shillings a week to her income.
Mr Bates, arriving back from the City in the evening, asked her if she’d kindly talk with him in the parlour.
‘Yes, what is it, Mr Bates?’ she asked, and her lodger regarded her with an unusually diffident smile.
‘Now I don’t want you to think I’m interferin’,’ he said, ‘it’s always been a rule of mine not to poke me nose into other people’s affairs. But you’re different, and so’s yer fam’ly, and I’ve got to say it depresses me to know you’ve had to start goin’ out to work. I said to meself, Jerry, I said, something’s got to be done about it. What’s my good lady most in need of, I asked meself. Security, I said. No financial worries, a decent roof over ’er head and no obstreperous landlord to come knockin’. Also, a bit of a garden with roses, and her precious girls sufferin’ no want. Maggie’s had a rough time, I said to meself, and ’ere she is havin’ to go out to work when she’s still got this house and ’er four girls to look after. Jerry, I said, it’s up to you to speak your piece.’
Maggie stared at him. His breeziness was muted, his smile very kind. ‘Mr Bates, what you talkin’ about exactly?’
He coughed, and he fiddled with his tie. ‘To be candid, Maggie, I’m talkin’ about me feelings. Deep feelings. I’ve been around, as I’ve said, but you’re the first woman I’ve met that I’ve ’ad deep feelings for. Now I’m not supposin’ it’s mutual, but it might be in time, it might well be, so what I’m proposin’, Maggie, is that you take me for better or worse, and as a willin’ father to yer girls.’
‘Lord save us,’ gasped Maggie. ‘Mr Bates – ’
‘It’s floored you?’ Mr Bates’s smile was understanding. ‘Well, you don’t have to decide right now, I wouldn’t ask you to or expect you to. Just take your time thinkin’ about it.’
Maggie’s breath was taken. She put a hand to her throat. This healthy and vigorous man was actually willing t
o marry her and become a father to her four girls? He had lifted her worries concerning her debts in a generous way, and been no trouble at all as a lodger. His presence was always a cheerful one. Now he wanted to marry her?
‘Mr Bates – ’
‘Jerry.’
‘Yes. Oh, lor’, I still don’t know what to say.’
‘Will this ’elp Maggie?’ He put his hands lightly on her shoulders and bent his head. Maggie was so defenceless in her confusion that she let the kiss happen. His lips pressed hers firmly and affectionately. She had not been kissed by a man for years, and the sensations were a natural pleasure to her. They did not, however, make her feel she was in love with him, but they were a reminder of what a woman could be to a man whom she did love. His lips withdrew, he lifted his head and smiled at her. ‘That wasn’t too bad, Maggie?’
‘No, it was kindly given, but I just can’t think straight at the moment.’
‘Understood,’ said Mr Bates. ‘Look ’ere, though, when I’ve finished gettin’ contracts, I won’t be wantin’ in finances, I’ll be able to provide very comfortable for you an’ the girls, and in a decent house with a bit of a garden. But you take yer time gettin’ your thinkin’ straight, I’m not goin’ to rush you. Take a couple of days, say, then if it’s yes I’ll marry you come June.’
‘June? That’s next month,’ said Maggie in new confusion.
‘Best month for a weddin’, yer know,’ smiled Mr Bates. ‘Best month to fit the girls up as yer bridesmaids.’
‘Lord, I just don’t know,’ breathed Maggie. A father for her girls, that had to be thought about, that and a decent home for them. ‘But I will think about it, and serious.’
‘All me own thinkin’ is very serious,’ said Mr Bates, ‘but I’m not goin’ to say any more just now, Maggie, I know when a woman needs to be by herself, and you’re a woman and a half. You give yerself a couple of days.’ He smiled again, gave her shoulder a gentle pat and went upstairs to his room.
Later, when the younger girls were in bed, Maggie thought about telling Trary of Mr Bates and his proposal. Trary, she knew, was a bit cool towards their lodger.
‘Trary love?’
‘I was just thinkin’, Mum, is Mr Bradshaw comin’ to see you again?’
Oh, lor’, thought Maggie, I forgot Harry Bradshaw is Trary’s hero. ‘Well, yes, he did say he might come an’ knock this week.’
‘Well, he’s nice, don’t you think he’s nice, Mum?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Maggie, and made no mention of Mr Bates, after all. Instead, her thoughts turned to the local constable and the trip to the Zoo. He’d behaved very natural with her girls, and her girls had been very responsive. Harry Bradshaw was a quieter man than Mr Bates, but he knew how to talk to young girls.
All the same, the plain fact was her four girls did need a dad.
Emma spent the evening making notes for proposals to submit to the suffragette hierarchy. She intended to have the proposals signed by those members in favour of tactics more subtle than militancy. She had enjoyed a very animated discussion with a dozen supporters that afternoon, at a friend’s house in the Edgware Road.
Preposterously, thoughts of Sergeant Chamberlain periodically interrupted her scribbling. She really had expected him to find an excuse to call again. It was not all that difficult for a woman to detect a man’s interest in her. One had to admit Sergeant Chamberlain was far from being a stolid and regimented policeman. His concern for her had been genuine, even if exaggerated. She really ought to make up for the little white lie she had told. She was quite willing to accept a companionable friendship. Not that she had decided never to marry again. Simply, she would need to be in love. Marriage for the sake of it was out.
If the man didn’t call, bother him, she need not worry about her little white lie. She frowned. Now why should she say bother him?
Harry walked into the newsagents on Tuesday morning. Maggie, serving a customer, saw him. He smiled and touched his helmet. She felt a quick little rush of pleasure.
‘Morning, Harry,’ called Mr Gardner from the tobacco counter, where he was selling a cigarette mixture and Rizla cigarette papers to an elderly man. ‘Be with you in a minute.’
‘I’m not buyin’, ’ said Harry, ‘I’m callin’.’ Maggie’s customer departing, he said, ‘How’s the boss treatin’ you, Mrs Wilson?’
‘What a question,’ said Maggie.
‘Just thought I’d step in and see if George had his whip out.’
‘Soul of marshmaller, that’s George,’ said the elderly gent, ‘except when ’e’s weighin’ out me baccy. ’Ard as old iron ’e is then. Look at that, call that an ounce?’
‘It’s what my scales call it,’ said Mr Gardner.
‘I seen them scales goin’ up an’ down man and boy,’ said the old one. ‘I dunno I ever seen ’em in me favour.’
Harry leaned across the counter to Maggie. ‘You finish at twelve?’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ said Maggie, still burdened by confused thoughts concerning Mr Bates’s proposal.
‘Mind if I come knockin’ at about one-fifteen?’ said Harry. ‘I’ve something to show you. I’ll be on my midday break.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Maggie, her facial hollows all gone.
‘I like the sound of that,’ said Harry.
‘My pleasure, I’m sure,’ smiled Maggie.
Daisy, Lily and Meg, having eaten their midday dinner, had gone back to school before Harry knocked at twenty-past one. Mr Bates was up in town and on Maggie’s mind. However, she received Harry with a smile and put the kettle on. When the tea was made she sat down with him at the kitchen table.
‘It’s business or social?’ she asked, filling the cups.
‘Come again?’ said Harry, thinking her more attractive each time he saw her. He knew many Walworth mothers with large families. He didn’t know any mother of four who looked as attractive as Maggie.
‘You said you had something to show me,’ she said.
‘Yes, I did, Mrs Wilson, and so I have.’
‘I don’t know you should still call me Mrs Wilson after spending all day Sunday at the Zoo with me an’ the girls,’ said Maggie. ‘It’s a bit stick-in-the-mud, Harry.’
‘You don’t mind if I call you Maggie, then?’ he said, and she found herself liking his smile and his stalwart looks. What a problem she had now, with a proposal from her lodger and a growing liking for this Walworth constable.
‘I’m Maggie to all me friends,’ she said.
‘Maggie’s a favourite name with me,’ said Harry, sipping the hot tea.
‘It’s Margaret, really, only no-one’s ever called me anything but Maggie.’
‘Yes, I like it,’ said Harry. ‘You don’t buy newspapers, do you?’
‘Am I missin’ much?’ she asked.
‘You’ve missed this, I think,’ he said, and took a folded page from his pocket. ‘The Daily News, Maggie. Well, a page of it from today’s edition. Read what it says there.’
It was a little notice in the Personal column, circled by Harry in ink. Maggie read it. It said that if Mrs Margaret Annie Wilson, niece of the late Henry Albert Rushton, who was last known to be residing in South London, would get in touch with Eden, Pendlebury and Rouse, solicitors of Gracechurch Street, she would hear of something to her advantage.
Wide-eyed, Maggie read the notice again, then lifted her head and said, ‘Lord above, that’s my uncle, Uncle Henry, who’s been in South Africa for years. Oh, I didn’t know ’e was dead, I used to write to him, he was a lovely man and always sayin’ he was goin’ to make his fortune one day.’
‘Well, perhaps he’s made it,’ said Harry, ‘and left some of it to you and the rest of his family.’
‘He didn’t have no fam’ly,’ said Maggie. ‘He was a larky old bachelor.’
‘Then I think you should go and see these solicitors as soon as possible.’
‘Oh, ’elp,’ breathed Maggie, a little flushed, ‘shall I
go quick?’
‘You could put your hat on and go now,’ said Harry, ‘but keep your feet on the ground in case it isn’t a fortune.’
‘Oh, he’d ’ave wrote me if he’d made his fortune, I’m sure he would,’ said Maggie. ‘But poor Uncle Henry, I wondered why I ’adn’t heard from him recent, not for months. Mum didn’t mention him when she last wrote. Uncle Henry was ’er brother. Did I tell you my parents and sister went to Australia the year I got married? My dad thought he’d go and make ’is fortune too, but he’s still hardup after fourteen years out there. Harry, d’you really think I should go up to Gracechurch Street now?’
‘I’d take you myself, but I’ve got to get back on duty at two o’clock. More plod-plod.’
‘You’re still tryin’ to catch that murderer?’
‘Scotland Yard is,’ said Harry. ‘Maggie, you put your hat on and go and find out what something to your advantage means.’
‘You’re a dear for comin’ to show me that notice,’ said Maggie, ‘and you’re Trary’s hero as well.’
Harry, rising, said, ‘I’m partial to Trary.’
‘She’s a bit young for you, isn’t she?’ smiled Maggie.
‘I didn’t mean that kind of partial,’ he said. ‘If I did, I think I’d have Bobby on my tail.’ He laughed. ‘Good luck at the solicitors, Maggie.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maggie had had her moments of despair but had never thought of giving up. Nor was she a woman to get into a flutter. However, she was in a flutter now, and for the first time in her life. She had put on her best dress and hat, such as they were, and she had her birth and wedding certificates with her, as Harry had advised. She did her very best not to quake nervously on arrival at the solicitors’ offices in Gracechurch Street, just across from London Bridge. Since she hadn’t made an appointment, she was told by a primlooking woman with severely dressed black hair that it might be a little while before Mr Rouse could see her. It was Mr Rouse who had had the Press notice inserted, and he kept her waiting hardly at all. He entered the waiting-room himself, greeted her courteously and with a very charming smile, and ushered her into his office. It was all brown to Maggie. Brown furniture, brown walls and brown curtains. And Mr Rouse had brown hair. But he wore what looked like a morning suit, with a stiff collar and grey tie. He expressed pleasure at meeting her, and seemed indeed to regard her with approval. Her hat and dress wouldn’t have done for Ascot, but Maggie did have a wholly pleasant appearance, and the largeness of her hazel eyes enhanced her looks. Harry always felt he was falling into them.
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