The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Crumbs, our Trary, don’t she fink of funny fings to say?’ said Daisy.

  ‘I see,’ said Maggie, ‘attractive with a nice figure. That sounds like Mavis Smith.’ Mavis Smith was the unmarried daughter of neighbours. ‘Yes, I suppose she’s what you’d call comely. Shall I invite ’er to tea as well, so’s she can be company for Mr Bradshaw at the table?’

  ‘Oh, Mum, ’eaven forgive you if you do,’ said Trary in horror. ‘She’s a lump, she’s all soft and lumpy.’

  ‘But Mr Bradshaw might like her,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Mum, you can’t ask her,’ said Trary, aghast, ‘we’d all fall down dead, an’ Mr Bradshaw as well, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Well, all right,’ said Maggie.

  ‘You shouldn’t give us nasty turns like that,’ said Trary, ‘not at our ages.’

  ‘You give me all kinds of turns, lovey, with the way your mind works,’ smiled Maggie. ‘Oh, and when you next see Bobby, you could at least invite ’im. You forgot last time.’

  ‘Yes, Mum. I suppose we could put up with a talkin’ machine comin’ to Sunday tea, especially now Uncle Henry’s taken kind care of our rainy days. We can count our blessings, can’t we? Mum, what’s happened to Mr Bates?’

  ‘He ’ad to leave,’ said Maggie, ‘he’s done all his City business, he was gone by the time I got home from me morning’s work.’

  ‘Ain’t ’e comin’ back?’ asked Lily.

  ‘Don’t we ’ave a lodger no more?’ asked Meg.

  ‘Well, pets, we don’t really need one now, do we?’ said Maggie.

  Gladness put warm light in Trary’s eyes. Now there was only Mr Bradshaw. Oh, he’d just got to marry her mum. Her mum deserved what Uncle Henry had left her, and she deserved a nice husband too.

  Harry, opening his front door, was greeted by Trary, spokesman for the party of four.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Bradshaw, hasn’t it been a lovely day?’

  ‘Good evening, Miss Trary Wilson, yes, it’s been lovely apart from the wind and the showers. Is that Daisy and Lily and Meg behind you?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve all come,’ said Trary, ‘you know what young children are.’

  ‘I’m not young, not now I’m growin’,’ said Meg. ‘Mister, we brought a note from our mum. Trary’s got it. Well, she’s the oldest an’ bossiest.’

  ‘Come in,’ said Harry. They surged in happily, eager and curious to see what his house was like. He sat them down in his living-room, which was as his mother had kept it before she began her decline. The brown leather armchairs and the matching sofa had known years of wear, but had comfortably endured. Trary looked around, instinctively seeking signs that he was in need of a wife. Yes, he was. A picture on the wall hung a little crookedly, ornaments on the mantelpiece needed proper arranging, and books and newspapers on a table were all higgledy-piggledy. And perhaps there was washing-up not done in the scullery.

  The girls were chatting away to him. Trary produced her mother’s note and handed it to him. He broke open the envelope, took out the note and read it.

  Dear Harry, I had an interesting time at the solicitors, it was so kind you letting me know. The girls would like you to come to tea again on Sunday, and I would too, we all hope we can expect you about four o’clock. Then after tea I’ll tell you what the solicitors said. Yours sincerely, Maggie.

  Trary, watching him, saw a smile appear, ‘Oh, can you come on Sunday?’ she asked impulsively.

  ‘I’m on duty, but I finish at three,’ said Harry. ‘Tell your mum I can’t wait to get there, especially if there’s goin’ to be another fruit cake. Are all of you invited too?’

  ‘Us?’ said Lily.

  ‘What’s ’e mean?’ whispered Daisy.

  ‘Oh, you silly, Mr Bradshaw,’ said Meg, ‘mum don’t have to invite us, we’re ’er fam’ly.’

  ‘I just wanted to make sure,’ said Harry, ‘seein’ it wouldn’t be as much fun if you weren’t there.’

  ‘All of us?’ said Meg.

  ‘All of you,’ said Harry.

  ‘I likes ’Arry,’ said Daisy in an aside to Lily.

  Trary laughed. Harry gave her a wink.

  Bobby wasn’t outside the school the following afternoon. Oh, that boy again, thought Trary. If he couldn’t be reliable, she’d have to dress him down a bit. Most boys needed dressing down, anyway, and at least once a week. She’d read that in a girls’ story book, the heroine had said it to her father, and it had sounded right to Trary. And you could tell that that Bobby Reeves was a boy you had to dress down regularly, for his own good. Otherwise, he’d get above himself, like all cheeky boys did. A girl could live a terrible downtrodden life if she let herself walk out regular with a boy who’d been allowed to get above himself.

  Walking along St George’s Road with Jane Atkins, Trary thought that if that Bobby Reeves didn’t turn up at all, she’d think about giving him the kind of talking-to that would take the grin off his face for ever. Jane, of course, was smirking because she knew she was miffed. She parted company with her as they reached the Elephant and Castle. Then, going towards the subway steps, she saw Bobby emerge.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, is that you, Trary?’

  ‘What d’you mean, is it me?’

  ‘Thought it was,’ said Bobby, peaked cap on the back of his head as usual, his grin as cheerful as usual. ‘Best girl in London, you are. I don’t know what it is that does it, and I don’t even know if it’s fair, but each time I see you you’re more of a treat to me peepers. I hope I don’t get to ’ave problems. I mean, by the time you’re sixteen and we’re kissin’ friends, you might be the best looker in England and I might ’ave to fight duels with lords an’ dukes. I hope I don’t ’ave to duel with Lord Northcliffe, though, it might damage me future. I know I’m a bit late, but – ’

  ‘D’you mind if I get a word in edgeways?’ asked Trary haughtily. ‘I don’t know, standin’ there grinnin’ and talkin’, and bein’ late as well – ’

  ‘I was only goin’ to say I’m a bit late because I had to go to Peckham with me mum’s handcart. I picked up – ’

  ‘You’re interruptin’ me,’ said Trary.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. You need a good talkin’-to, you do, Bobby Reeves. Oh, can you come to tea Sunday?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Stop sayin’ me, you blessed boy. Yes, you. Mum says she’d like the pleasure of your company. Well, come on, don’t keep standin’ there, you don’t want Mr Bradshaw arrestin’ us for bein’ obstructions, do you? I don’t suppose he’d mind arrestin’ you, but it would break his fond heart to have to take me to the police station. I happen to be his favourite young lady. You Bobby, don’t you be late again, or I’ll get another boy to walk me home in the afternoons.’

  ‘Crikey,’ said Bobby, admiration total, ‘that’s the best carry-on you’ve ever done, Trary.’ They descended the steps. ‘Is there any more?’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ said Trary, ‘and it’s for your own good. You don’t want to get above yourself, do you? Turnin’ up late and then grinnin’ about it is gettin’ above yourself. All boys get above themselves if they’re not given a good talkin’-to. Girls don’t need to be. They’re nicer. Anyone can tell I’m much nicer than you are.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a nicer figure, Trary. I’m just straight all the way up an’ down. You’re – ’

  ‘Oh, you cheeky monkey! D’you want to be my death?’ Trary ran up the stone steps into the light, where the noise of tangled traffic and bawling drivers helped to drown her laughter. By the time Bobby was beside her again, her nose was in the air. ‘You wait till I see your mum again,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell her about your disrespectful talk.’

  ‘I’ll tell her meself,’ said Bobby, ‘I’ll tell her I mentioned you’ve got a nicer figure than I ’ave. I don’t think she’ll say it’s disrespectful.’

  ‘Of course it is, you’re supposed to be respectful to girls. I just hope you grow out
of it, all my friends at school are already sorry for me the way I have to walk home with you. I can’t think why mum doesn’t order you never to darken our door again. Can you come to tea Sunday? You haven’t said.’

  ‘Would you acquaint your gen’rous mum with me glad confirmation?’ said Bobby.

  ‘Oh, you blessed show-off, Bobby Reeves,’ said Trary, gritting her teeth with envy again. ‘I’m sure I don’t know why mum thinks your company would be a pleasure, but of course she’s ever so considerate, she thinks there’s good in everybody, she’d invite Bill Sykes to Sunday tea in the hope of even findin’ a bit of good in him. I suppose she hopes there’s a bit of good in you. Oh, you Bobby!’

  Bobby was shouting with laughter, just as he had once before. And people were looking, men grinning and women smiling. Trary went hoity-toity.

  ‘I’m fallin’ about, I am,’ said Bobby. ‘Tell you what, I’ll try and bring me good side with me on Sunday. Also, would you like to come roller-skatin’ at Brixton on Saturday afternoon? Mum says I can take the time off. She’s gettin’ dad to help ’er Saturday, if he don’t – well, never mind that.’

  ‘I’ve never met your dad,’ said Trary. ‘Is he nice, is he like Mr Bradshaw? You are lucky, Bobby, that you’ve got a dad. But I don’t know about roller-skatin’, I’ve never done any.’

  ‘Like me to help you learn?’

  ‘Oh, would you?’

  ‘Pleasure, Trary.’

  ‘You’re sometimes awf’lly kind,’ said Trary, feet dancing and boater bobbing.

  Friday night. The man was waiting in the shadows at the side of Ashford’s sweet shop, which was on a corner where a narrow street met Browning Street. The former led to the stables for Southwark’s work-horses. The night was well on, the air mild and benign, and Walworth might have known the blossoms of early summer if it had not been sootily arid with bricks, mortar and paving-stones.

  The woman had gone out. Not many were venturing abroad in the evenings unless in company. This one had left her house in King and Queen Street by herself. Nicely dressed, with a small toque hat crowning her fair hair, she looked a cut above her neighbours. She looked ladylike. She had entered Browning Street, and gone on to catch a tram at the Manor Place stop in the Walworth Road. It was odds-on she would return the same way. He didn’t mind waiting. He was as good as invisible in this kind of darkness. It hadn’t been dark when she’d left her house, when he’d only been a part of the evening pattern, just one more person out and about. He had strolled along the Walworth Road while it was still light, keeping the Browning Street tram stop in sight in case she returned early from her outing. When darkness arrived, he took up his wait, his jacket collar turned up, the brim of his bowler hat low on his forehead. He kept himself flat against the brick wall.

  He was still waiting. Most people were now in their beds, the pubs closed, the workers of Walworth at their well-earned rest. A bobby on his slow, measured beat approached and passed by, going towards King and Queen Street without so much as a brief sideways glance. A tram stopped in the Walworth Road. The waiting man heard it. He had heard others, but she had been on none of them. Or if she had, she had not come this way. She had to be on this one. If not, he would have to give up. He tensed, calculating how far away the bobby would be by the time his possible quarry reached this corner. She would be on this side, because it was on this side that King and Queen Street lay. He waited, not moving a muscle, even though the inner excitement, erotically galvanizing, was almost unbearable. It was well past eleven o’clock. The woman would not be later, surely.

  He heard quick footsteps. A little way up, on the other side of the street, a lamp glowed on the corner of Colworth Grove. He saw her in its light. Damnation, she was on the wrong side. But she crossed then, stepping from the pavement to traverse the street diagonally, heading straight for Ashford’s sweet shop, which was blanketed by darkness. His hands tightened around that which would become a noose. Then he sickened with rage, for a man appeared. He too was seen in the light of that street lamp, and he too crossed there, coming on in the wake of the woman, who passed Ashford’s.

  The waiting man gritted his teeth as the following man passed by. The acute frustration brought bile, acid and bitter, into his throat, and he almost vomited. His heated body shuddered, and his perspiration became clammy. He turned his jacket collar down, adjusted his bowler, put his hands into his trouser pockets and walked away.

  A fluttery wife, arriving home at midnight with her husband, went straight up to bed leaving him to see to things, like laying the kitchen fire for the morning. He was a good husband. When he came up, she was asleep. But he woke her up when he joined her in bed.

  ‘Oh,’ she breathed a minute later, ‘oh, Herby.’

  ‘Makes a nice change, Maudie.’

  ‘Yes, but – oh, my word – but your back – ’

  ‘I’m putting up with it.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll bruise me. Herby – oh!’

  She had never known him so urgent, and him with his back and all. If she’d been a girl again, she’d have blushed. Still, like he’d said, it did make a nice change.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Saturday morning.

  ‘Hello.’

  Emma, putting a selection of gloves away after making a sale, looked up. Trary smiled at her.

  ‘Well, hello again,’ said Emma, returning the smile. The girl looked more appealing than ever in a peach-coloured frock. Beside her was a small girl.

  ‘We’re all here this mornin’,’ said Trary, ‘my mother, my three sisters and me. This is my youngest sister, Daisy. Daisy, say hello.’

  ‘’Ello,’ said Daisy. None of the girls were shy.

  ‘Hello,’ smiled Emma.

  ‘Mum and Lily and Meg are buyin’ shoes at the moment,’ said Trary, ‘Daisy and me have got ours. We all want to buy frocks and things, so Daisy and me came to make sure you could serve us, you were ever so nice last time. Mum and my other sisters won’t be long, so if you could start with Daisy and me, that would save time, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘How nice, I’m delighted,’ said Emma. ‘Could I ask your name?’

  ‘Trary – Trary Wilson.’

  ‘I’m Mrs Carter, Mrs Emma Carter. Yes, let’s get busy, shall we? What colour and style of frocks do you have in mind?’

  ‘Oh, I’d like one in crepe, in a fawn shade, but not with a sash or anything fussy,’ said Trary. ‘Daisy wants pink, with a big sash. Oh, and would you have a skirt and a petticoat a bit short for roller-skatin’? I’m goin’ to the Brixton rink this afternoon.’

  ‘She’s goin’ wiv Bobby,’ said Daisy, offering the information readily. She offered more. ‘’E kisses ’er sometimes.’

  ‘Lucky Bobby,’ smiled Emma.

  ‘Oh, you Daisy, you’re a little ’orror,’ said Trary. Daisy giggled. Emma thought both girls delicious. She got busy.

  Trary and Daisy had a rapturous time. So did Meg and Lily when they arrived. So did Maggie, who was buying for herself as well as the girls. Emma’s counter became alive with excited chatter. She found it utterly enchanting to involve herself in the wants, wishes and decisions of the pleasant-looking mother and her four girls. In and out of the fitting room they all went, Maggie at her happiest in being able to provide so well for her daughters. Having paid Mr Bates what she owed him, she still had over forty pounds in her purse. Over forty pounds. Lovely Uncle Henry, the Lord rest his wandering soul, had turned her purse into a little goldmine. If really nice frocks were as much as half a guinea, what did it matter?

  The assistant serving them was a charming woman, and so helpful. Emma, indeed, was not in the least worried about the length of time it took to serve all of them. She was almost sorry when the prolonged transaction was finally concluded, with everyone very happy. Trary could hardly contain her bliss at the acquisition of her roller-skating outfit, which consisted of a lovely white lawn blouse with pearl buttons, a dark green skirt with a wide flared hem and a dazzling white petticoat fringed wi
th layers of lace. Maggie’s own purchases included two handsome brocade dresses, like tea gowns, and two fashionable toque hats, so favoured by Princess Mary of Wales.

  Emma, adding up the bill, had to acquaint Maggie with the dire news that it came to twelve pounds, eleven shillings and sevenpence-three-farthings.

  ‘Oh, heavens,’ said Maggie, and Emma wondered for a moment if Mrs Wilson could meet such a bill. Her clothes hardly spoke of affluence, although her girls were all wearing very nice frocks. ‘I never spent so much money in all me life. Well, never mind, we’re all happy, an’ you’ve been such a ’elp.’ Maggie opened her purse and handed three white five-pound notes to Emma.

  ‘Thanks so much, Mrs Wilson,’ said Emma, ‘it really has been a great pleasure to serve you all.’ The sale meant welcome commission for her on top of all the enjoyment. The cash canister whirred on its way.

  ‘It’s been lovely,’ said Trary.

  ‘I’m all dizzy,’ said Meg.

  ‘I’m giddy,’ said Lily.

  ‘I’m little,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Oh, little girls are nice girls, aren’t they?’ smiled Emma.

  ‘Yes, I fink I am,’ said Daisy.

  The canister came back with the bill and the change. The family said goodbye and departed, leaving Emma feeling a flat dull quiet had taken their place. Laden with parcels, the family went home, enriched by the ownership of new dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes, socks, stockings, hats and oceans of new underwear.

  The Brixton roller-skating rink was crowded with enthusiastic young people. Exuberant cockney boys and girls from places like Camberwell, Walworth and Kennington, mingled with the lively sons and daughters of the lower middle-classes from Brixton Hill, Herne Hill and Norwood. The latter received their entrance fee from their parents, the cockney boys and girls scraped it together somehow. It was fun for all, integrating fun.

  Bobby thought Trary looked stunning. Trary herself felt almost grown-up in her outfit. Well, she felt fifteen at least, especially as she also wore white silk stockings and white button-up shoes. The stockings represented an extravagant but affectionate gesture on Maggie’s part. Her eldest daughter was so funny in all she said about Bobby, but Maggie knew she considered him the only boy worthwhile. It sent her dotty that he could out-talk her sometimes, and being sent dotty meant laughter to a girl like Trary. Maggie, quite aware she wanted her roller-skating outfit to knock Bobby flat, had accordingly splashed out on the white silk stockings.