Missing Person

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Who’s them little girls that arrived with yer, Tilly?’ he asked.

  ‘Me new landlord’s daughters,’ said Tilly, turning. ‘’Ere, where’ve them young terrors gone?’

  Bubbles and Penny-Farving had disappeared again, and Tilly spent the next ten minutes fuming and searching. She’d been landed with them, become responsible for them and now, blow it, she’d lost them. She supposed they knew their way home, but they were still too young to be wandering about on their own. Bother it, she thought, why should I have a heart attack?

  She elbowed her way through a morning crowd of shoppers. Most kids were at school, some little ones in the market with their mums. But there was no sign of the blue-eyed angels in their old-fashioned frocks.

  ‘’Ere, where yer goin’ wivout us, Tilly?’ The voice came from behind her. She whipped round and there they were, little girls who looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘You pair of Turks, where’ve you been?’ she asked.

  ‘We been ’ere, in the market,’ said Penny-Farving.

  ‘You went and got lost,’ said Bubbles accusingly to Tilly.

  ‘Me? I got lost? I’ll drown the both of you in a minute,’ said Tilly. ‘Didn’t I tell you to stay close to me skirts?’

  ‘Penny-Farvin’, what’s she cross for?’ asked Bubbles.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Penny-Farving.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got in your ’ands?’ demanded Tilly of both girls.

  ‘Apples,’ said Penny-Farving, ‘we’ve got one each.’

  ‘You bought them yourselves, did you, without waitin’ for me to?’

  ‘We couldn’t buy them, we didn’t ’ave any money,’ said Penny-Farving.

  ‘Our money’s at ’ome in our money-boxes,’ said Bubbles.

  ‘Lord ’elp us, d’you mean you nicked them?’ asked Tilly.

  ‘Well, they was nearly fallin’ off the stall, and the man wasn’t lookin’,’ said Penny-Farving.

  ‘Pinchin’ apples at your age? Well, I’m now goin’ to take you back to the stall, d’you ’ear?’ said Tilly. ‘And you’re goin’ to show me which stall.’

  The blue-eyed angels looked at each other. Their expressions said it all. What’s she fussin’ for?

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Penny-Farving, and Tilly marched them back to the stall in question, which they pointed out to her. The middle-aged stallholder, Alf Cooley, eyed the little girls benevolently.

  ‘’Ello, back again, are yer, Penny-Farvin’ and little Bubbles? And who’s the lady I’m seein’ yer with if it ain’t Tilly Thomas that’s been a customer of mine these last months? ‘Ow’s yer good-lookin’ self, Tilly me gal?’

  ‘Oh, you know these two angels, do you?’ said Tilly. ‘Well, they’ve got something to tell you, Alf.’

  ‘No, we ain’t,’ said Penny-Farving.

  ‘Nor me, eiver,’ said Bubbles.

  ‘Yes, you ’ave,’ said Tilly. ‘Go on, own up.’

  ‘Oh, bower it,’ said Penny-Farving. ‘Oh, all right. Me and Bubbles took an apple each.’

  ‘Oh, yer did, did yer?’ said Alf Cooley. ‘Was that when me back was turned?’

  ‘Yes, you wasn’t lookin’,’ said Bubbles.

  ‘Quick as a flash, were yer?’ said Alf. Penny-Farving giggled. Bubbles looked at her feet. ‘All right, show us what you took,’ said Alf, and they showed him. ‘Two of me best New Zealand pippins, is it? Well, you got good taste for the time of the year. But don’t do it again, me angels, or I’ll fall out with yer.’

  ‘Half a mo’,’ said Tilly, ‘they’re goin’ to put those apples back or pay for them.’

  ‘But I’ve ’ad a bite of mine,’ said Bubbles.

  ‘And we ain’t got any money,’ said Penny-Farving.

  Tilly tried an expression of frowning disapproval, but it wasn’t a great success. In a manner of speaking, it hardly broke surface. Well, she was a good-hearted young woman generally, and these imps were so young. It was their father who was to blame in not teaching them what was right and what was wrong.

  ‘All right, I’ll pay,’ she said, ‘and you can owe me.’

  ‘No worries, Tilly,’ said Alf, ‘I’ll let ’em off this time. We’ve all been kids, we’ve all done a bit of swipin’ down London markets on account of our mums and dads bein’ ’ard-up.’

  ‘’Ere, d’you mind not includin’ me?’ said Tilly.

  ‘Granted with pleasure, I’m sure,’ said Alf. ‘Well, there y’ar, me little angels, one free pippin each gratis and for nothing, but don’t do it on me again. Try Ma Earnshaw’s fruit stall next time.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Tilly, ‘you’re as bad as they are.’

  ‘Well, wasn’t I a kid meself once, like I just said? Besides, I know their dad. Reg’lar decent bloke.’

  ‘Well, if you know ’im, that’s your ’ard luck,’ said Tilly. ‘Wait till I see ’im again meself.’

  ‘Wish yer luck, Tilly,’ said Alf, ‘but what’re yer doin’ out with ’is little ’uns? ’Ow did yer come – oh, ’ello, top of the mornin’ to yer, missus,’ he said to an arriving customer, ‘what can I do for yer shoppin’ basket?’

  ‘Come on, you two,’ said Tilly, and led the girls away.

  Once back in the house, she spent the next few hours unpacking her cases, sorting out clothes and other belongings, going downstairs at regular intervals to make sure the terrors were still alive, reading the occasional riot act and pushing home the top bolt of the front door so that they couldn’t go out and get themselves run over. At twelve-thirty she prepared a meal from food in the larder and sat down to share it with them at the kitchen table.

  In the afternoon, Tom Hardiman, the twenty-year-old son of stallholder Joe Hardiman called on her, with his barrow. He let her know that George Rice, a street corner bookie who was always too smart to be copped by the law, had refused to let him in to collect the sewing-machine and the dressmaking model.

  ‘’Ad a growl all over ’is clock, Tilly, and ’e was wearin’ ’is ’obnailed boots as well.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tilly, ‘’old on a tick and we’ll go round together.’

  She took the girls with her, and to their delight Tom gave them a ride on his barrow all the way to the house in Brandon Street. Tilly also took a rolling-pin. George Rice answered her knock on his door.

  ‘Git off me doorstep,’ he said by way of openers.

  ‘I’ve called for me sewing-machine and me dummy,’ said Tilly, with Tom beside her.

  ‘Yer out,’ said Rice, ‘you ain’t lodgin’ ’ere no more, so you ain’t entitled to enter me abode without me permission, which you ain’t gittin’. That clear?’

  ‘She’s got a right to collect what’s ’er own,’ said Tom.

  ‘What she left ’ere is what I got a legal right to claim as mine,’ growled Rice, still upset not only at being rebuffed but at the painful damage that had been done to his head. It was still sorely painful.

  ‘You goin’ to stand aside and let us in or do I ’ave to show you me passport?’ said Tilly, with the girls watching from the barrow.

  ‘What passport, yer daft bitch?’

  ‘’Ere, watch yer mouth, mate, when yer talkin’ to a lady,’ said Tom, a gallant young costermonger.

  ‘A lady? So’s my bleedin’ canary, I don’t think,’ said Rice. ‘Listen,’ he said to Tilly, ‘ten passports ain’t goin’ to git you past my door, let alone one.’

  ‘Here’s mine,’ said Tilly, and her hand came from behind her back and a solid wooden rolling-pin with an injurious look showed itself to George Rice’s large hooter. Remembering what she’d done to him with her knee, then a vase, and, further, what her fireside poker might have done, his hooter suddenly felt in mortal danger. ‘That’s me own personal passport, mister,’ said Tilly, ‘so are you goin’ to stand aside or not?’

  ‘Oh, yer crazy bitch,’ bawled Rice, ‘ain’t you got no respect at all for people’s life and limbs?’

  Tilly poked him in the paunch with
the rolling-pin. Expressions of glee appeared on the faces of Penny-Farving and Bubbles, still sitting in the barrow. Rice himself was far from gleeful. The rolling-pin looked as if it was about to land on his sore head. He backed away.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Take yer bleedin’ sewing-machine,’ bawled Rice, ‘and I ’ope it falls on yer ruddy feet.’

  ‘Poor bloke, ’e’s all upset now, Tom,’ said Tilly. ‘Come on, let’s go up.’ Tom, grinning, went upstairs with her, and between them they brought the sewing-machine down. With its treadle it was heavy, and the little girls scrambled out of the barrow to make room for it. Tom then went upstairs again and brought down the dressmaking dummy, something that fascinated Penny-Farving and Bubbles. With Rice having retired to his kitchen, Tilly and Tom made a peaceful departure. Reaching the house in Caulfield Place, Tilly helped Tom to load the sewing-machine on his back, and he took it upstairs for her. She followed with the dummy, then paid Tom for his time and trouble.

  ‘Yer welcome, Tilly,’ he said, and departed with his barrow.

  ‘Now, you gels,’ said Tilly, ‘let’s ’ave a pot of tea.’

  ‘Can we ’ave cake as well?’ asked Penny-Farving.

  ‘Is there some?’ asked Tilly.

  ‘Course there is,’ said Bubbles, ‘Dad always makes sure there’s cake. ’E says it’s good for us.’

  ‘It’s in a tin,’ said Penny-Farving.

  It was. Half of a baker’s Madeira. Well, that father of theirs at least didn’t keep them short of food. The larder was quite well stocked. All the same, Tilly promised herself a set-to with him the moment he got home.

  Chapter Five

  MRS HIGGINS, A long-term resident of Caulfield Place, could be very informative about all the others, and having met the new neighbour, Mrs Harper, coming down the Place from Browning Street, she had taken the opportunity to introduce herself and enjoy a bit of a gossip.

  ‘I ’ear you come from ’Oxton, Mrs ’Arper.’

  ‘Well, that’s right,’ said Mrs Harper, ‘but I’m Shoreditch-born, yer know.’

  ‘Oh, we won’t ’old that against yer,’ said Mrs Higgins, ‘none of us can ’elp where we’re born. Take my old man now, ’e was born on a tram in Bermondsey, a week earlier than expected. They had to stop the tram and the passengers all ’ad to get off, and ’is mother, poor woman, was never more embarrassed. But she never ’eld it against ’im, and I ’aven’t, either, and it was natural that when ’e was old enough ’e got ’is job as a tram conductor. Is yer ’usband from ’Oxton too?’

  ‘Yes, we was both livin’ in ’Oxton together, bein’ ’usband and wife. His firm moved ’im to Camberwell, with ’is brother-in-law, who works for the same firm, so we’ve all come ’ere to live.’ Mrs Harper spoke like a new resident wanting to be neighbourly. ‘It seems a nice quiet street, there ain’t much noise from them printin’ works nor them drug mills, and we ain’t ’ad any of our winders broke yet by any of the street kids. I remember once in Shoreditch there was a shop that ’ad all its winders broke.’ Her father’s boot and shoe repair shop, that was the one, but she didn’t say so.

  Broken windows weren’t meat and drink to Mrs Higgins, so she said, ‘Yer brother-in-law don’t ’appen to be married, Mrs ’Arper?’

  ‘’E’s a widower, poor soul.’ Mrs Harper let sorrow sigh. ‘Lost ’is wife four months ago. Pleurisy took ’er. So me and Wally, me ’ubby, took pity on ’im, and ’e’s livin’ with us for a while till ’e gets over ’is sad loss.’

  ‘It’s ’ard on a man, gettin’ widowered,’ said Mrs Higgins, ‘they can’t look after themselves like women can. Me old man couldn’t even boil an egg if I left ’im to it. Oh, ’ere’s Mr Rogers comin’ ’ome from ’is work.’

  Dan Rogers was striding down the Place from Browning Street. He wore a peaked black cap and a dark grey suit. His broad shoulders and chest tapered to a good waist and supple hips. He had some shopping with him in a brown paper carrier bag. His rugged face creased in a smile as he approached the two women.

  ‘Oh, ’ello, Mr Rogers,’ said Mrs Higgins from her gate, ‘’ave yer met Mrs ’Arper, yer new neighbour?’

  ‘How’dyer do, can’t stop,’ said Dan. He knew that if he did stop and gave an ear to Mrs Higgins, she’d take hold of it and not let go until she’d worn it out. He nodded to the new neighbour who’d moved in next door to him and the girls. ‘Got to get indoors and feed me girls,’ he said, and went on.

  ‘That’s Mr Rogers that lives on the other side of you, Mrs ’Arper,’ said Mrs Higgins. ‘You’ll probably get to ’ear ’is two little girls playin’ in ’is yard, next to yours. They ain’t old enough for school yet.’

  ‘Seems to me I ’ave ’eard ’em,’ said Mrs Harper. ‘They’re out in the yard a lot, are they?’

  ‘Well, it’s on account of not ’aving their mum around,’ said Mrs Higgins. ‘Me youngest daughter Alice that’s not got a job yet usually looks after them durin’ the day, but the poor girl’s got a fractured ankle that’s keepin’ her in bed, and—’

  ‘I’ll be on me way, if yer’ll excuse me, Mrs ’Iggins,’ said Mrs Harper, ‘there’s supper to get for Wally and ’is brother, seein’ they’ll be back from their work soon. Been a pleasure talkin’ to yer.’

  What a boring old faggot, she thought, as she made her way to her house. Still, it was as well to know the two little girls next door were out in their yard a lot.

  Tilly was in the kitchen with Penny-Farving and Bubbles when their father walked in. She’d had to stop them playing with the old sewing-machine that stood in the bay of the window. Few Walworth families lacked a sewing-machine, usually of Victorian vintage. These irrepressible little terrors, playing about at their own machine, were quite likely to run the needle into their fingers. The arrival of their father was a relief to Tilly, and also an opportunity to have a go at him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said cheerfully, ‘how’s it been?’

  ‘Yes, you might well ask—’

  ‘Hello, me little sausages,’ he said to the girls, ‘behaved yerselves, have you? The nice lady’s looked after you, has she? That’s good, so how about a smacker?’ He picked up each girl in turn and delivered smackers on their noses. They giggled. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Miss – let’s see, what was your name now?’

  ‘Miss Thomas,’ said Tilly, ‘and I’ve spent the day gettin’ grey hairs on account of—’

  ‘Bless you, Miss Thomas, you’ve been a treasure,’ said Dan breezily. ‘Can’t thank you enough. Hope you’ve settled in and found the rooms comfy.’

  ‘Now look ’ere—’

  ‘Got some problems?’ said Dan. ‘Don’t worry. As soon as we’ve had supper, I’ll ’elp you sort them out. I like the idea of having someone else around. Did I say that this mornin’? Well, no harm sayin’ it again, it’s a real pleasure to have a lady lodger.’

  ‘’Old on,’ said Tilly, ‘I’m not ’ere for your benefit—’

  ‘You just make yerself at home, Miss Thomas, and consider yerself one of the fam’ly.’

  ‘Not likely,’ said Tilly, ‘and if you don’t let me get a word in edgeways, there’ll be ructions.’

  ‘She ’it a man wiv the rollin’-pin, Dad,’ said Penny-Farving.

  ‘Yes, we seen ’er,’ said Bubbles, and gazed admiringly at Tilly.

  ‘Deserved it, did he?’ grinned Dan. ‘Where’d she hit him? On our doorstep?’

  ‘No, down in Brandon Street,’ said Penny-Farving. ‘She give us a ride on a bloke’s barrow.’

  ‘I’ll do the talkin’,’ said Tilly, ‘I’ve got a lot of it to deliver to your—’

  ‘Well, don’t let’s worry,’ said Dan, ‘we can have a chat after supper. What d’you say to some saveloys and mash, me little sausages?’ He opened the carrier bag he’d placed on the table. ‘Got some here, and enough for you as well, Miss Thomson, if you’d like to join us.’

  ‘Thomas, not Thomson,’ said Tilly, frustrations beginning to bo
il. ‘You’re makin’ a supper of saveloys and mash for your girls?’

  ‘You bet,’ said Dan, fishing out a dozen wrapped saveloys.

  ‘We like sav’loys,’ said Bubbles.

  ‘What about veg?’ asked Tilly. ‘What about greens?’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Penny-Farving.

  ‘We don’t like greens,’ said Bubbles.

  ‘Hate ’em, don’t you, me angels?’ said Dan.

  ‘You can’t leave greens out of their meals,’ said Tilly, ‘it ain’t good for children not to ’ave any greens, they’ll get rickets or something.’

  ‘That a fact?’ said Dan. ‘Well, Bubbles, it looks like you and Penny-Farvin’ might have to eat a bit of cabbage now and again, say on Sundays.’

  ‘I’ll be sick,’ said Penny-Farving

  ‘Me too,’ said Bubbles, ‘and on a Sunday as well.’

  ‘All right, no greens on Sundays, then,’ said Dan. ‘Some other day, eh?’ He unwrapped the saveloys, and their skins gleamed redly. ‘Like to join us, Miss Thomas? Tell you what, let’s forget Miss Thomas, it’s a bit stuffy.’

  ‘She’s Tilly,’ said Penny-Farving.

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Dan. ‘Well, fancy some saveloys and mash with us, Tilly? Won’t take long to heat the saveloys. I boiled some potatoes last night, I’ll bring ’em back to the boil now and then mash ’em with some milk and butter.’

  ‘Butter? Butter?’ Tilly’s brown eyes showed the heat of exasperation. ‘You don’t ’ave to use butter to cream mashed potatoes. Milk and marge are good enough for anybody.’

  ‘Well, that’s a fair point,’ said Dan, still so breezy and cheerful that Tilly wanted to dot him one. ‘But we’re not exactly hard-up. I’m the foreman-mechanic for Soper’s lorries off the New Kent Road. It’s a good job, well-paid on account of my qualifications and responsibilities, and there’s more and more lorries comin’ on to the roads these days, y’know.’ He moved into the scullery, taking the saveloys with him, on a plate. Penny-Farving and Bubbles followed him, watching as he tipped the saveloys into a pan and placed it in the gas oven. He struck a match and lit the jets, then closed the oven door. Tilly came into the scullery. ‘Internal combustion’s goin’ to push horse-drawn transport right off the roads, Tilly,’ he said, lifting the lid of a saucepan and inspecting last night’s boiled potatoes that were immersed in water. ‘D’you know anything about internal combustion?’