‘I think I tripped up,’ said Sammy. ‘Unconscious, like. All right, Boots, bowl underarm to all the ladies.’
‘If he bowls underarm to me,’ said Lizzy, ‘I’ll knock him silly for insultin’ me.’ Lizzy was, of course, a batsman of renown.
‘There you are, Boots,’ called Ned, ‘that’s no lady, that’s my wife.’
The young ones yelled with laughter.
‘Ned Somers,’ called Chinese Lady, ‘I heard that.’
‘Sorry, old lady,’ said Ned, ‘I had one of Sammy’s unconscious moments.’
‘I’ll see to you when I get you home, Ned Somers,’ said Lizzy. ‘Now, come on, Boots, stop standin’ about lookin’ like Lord Muck waitin’ for the muffin man. Bowl up.’
Boots, in cricket shirt and flannels, hair a little ruffled from exercise, wore his usual good-humoured expression.
‘Sure I’m not interrupting the conversation?’ he said.
‘Worse than that, Daddy,’ said Rosie, ‘you’re holding up the cricket.’
‘Hit him, someone,’ said Lizzy.
Boots laughed, and Polly thought, burning arrows of fire, am I never going to have that man? And Rosie thought, oh, I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone more than Nana’s only oldest son.
He bowled to Lizzy and she cracked the ball to the far corner of the garden.
‘Good shot, Lizzy,’ smiled Mr Finch, fielding at long-stop, not far from the kitchen.
‘Phone’s ringing, Grandpa, phone’s ringing,’ called young Alice.
‘Coming,’ said Mr Finch, and deserted his post to enter the house through the kitchen. With the place empty of people, the ringing had a loud and demanding note. In the hall, a moment of suspicion made him hesitate. Then he picked the phone up and lifted the receiver.
‘Yes, hello?’ he said.
‘Oh, hello, I think that’s you, Mr Finch,’ said Rachel from the other end of the line.
‘And I think that’s Rachel,’ he said. Her voice always had a distinctive musical element.
‘Yes. How’s the family?’
‘Playing cricket in the garden,’ said Mr Finch.
‘My life, they’ll never grow up,’ said Rachel.
‘We’re all trying not to.’
‘So am I,’ said Rachel. ‘Is Boots there, can he be torn from his cricket?’
‘I think so,’ said Mr Finch.
‘Is Sammy there?’
‘Yes, with his family.’
‘Well, dear Mr Finch, this is actually a business call that’s just between me and Boots for the moment, even if it is your Sabbath.’
‘I see. Point taken, Rachel. Hold the line.’ Mr Finch went back through the kitchen and called to Boots from the door.
‘Can you spare a moment, Boots?’
‘Only too pleased,’ said Boots, ‘I’ve just been hit for two sixes by my lady sister.’
‘Some lady,’ said Bobby, ‘that’s my dad’s wife.’
‘Em’ly, smack that boy’s bottom,’ said Lizzy.
‘Why, what’ve I said?’ asked Bobby.
‘Who’s on the line?’ asked Boots of his stepfather as he entered the kitchen.
‘Rachel,’ smiled Mr Finch. ‘A business call.’
‘The lady’s a charmer,’ said Boots, and went through to the hall. He picked up the phone. ‘Rachel?’
‘Hello, Boots lovey, d’you mind that it’s Sunday?’
‘Not a bit. I like Sundays.’
‘I mean phoning you on a Sunday.’
‘I like that too,’ said Boots.
‘There’s a sweetie,’ said Rachel. ‘I wanted to give you a report on what I’ve found out so far concerning Johnson’s. There are three directors, John Johnson and Frank Johnson, brothers, and Rolf Berger. They own all the shares between them. But they’re not doing very good business, their last two balance sheets show a loss. You said your own company’s only making a small profit, so what’s the point of Johnson’s buying you out?’
‘Ask me another,’ said Boots.
‘I wasn’t actually asking,’ said Rachel, ‘I was being rhetorical.’
‘Rhetorical? Don’t use that word in front of Chinese Lady,’ said Boots, ‘she’ll think you’ve picked up some naughty French. I put it down to your finishing school.’
‘Yes, ain’t I educated, ducky?’ said Rachel. ‘But you can talk, after what your school did for you. I’ve heard about all the kids calling you Lord Muck. Anyway, back to business, as I don’t want to keep you from your cricket. And I only want to say I’m going to call on some of Johnson’s yards tomorrow to see what they’ve got on offer and at what prices.’
‘This is what I call an act of faithful friendship,’ said Boots.
‘It’s a loving friendship, ain’t it?’ said Rachel, and her laughter purred over the line.
‘I like that too,’ said Boots, and they spoke their goodbyes.
Emily asked who’d been on the phone, and Boots said a faithful friend.
‘One of your old Army mates?’ asked Emily, with the cricket still going on.
‘No, a different kind of old mate,’ said Boots. ‘Rachel Goodman,’ he murmured.
‘Am I goin’ to have to hit you with something?’
‘Well, Em old love, I’ll let you know if I think you should.’
‘Boots, you’re sly, you are.’
‘Is that good or bad, Em?’
‘Wicked, mostly,’ said Emily.
The cricket ended, and Chinese Lady made everyone sit down for tea in the garden. It was a chattering tea, every tongue adept at wagging, and the garden echoed to lifted voices, laughter, giggles and arguments. Polly sat with Lizzy and her family. She had always got on well with Lizzy, and she liked Ned. He too was an old soldier.
After tea, when the lowering sun brought a touch of balmy evening to the garden and the young ones were chasing about, Polly sauntered across to the shed.
‘Aunt Polly, what d’you want in the shed?’ called Tim.
‘I’ve got an appointment,’ called Polly.
‘Who with?’ asked Annabelle.
‘With the lawn mower,’ said Polly, which tickled some of the young and slightly mystified some of the grown-ups.
It made Boots smile.
Chapter Twelve
SAMMY, ON HIS way to the firm’s one and only shop in the West End – Oxford Street, to be precise – entered a turning off Waterloo Road and pulled up outside the yard belonging to Eli Greenberg, the well-known rag-and-bone merchant who was also well thought of. Sammy got out of his car and Mr Greenberg came out of the green-painted shed that served as his office. His yard, much of it under cover, contained mountains of household articles, from frying-pans to bedsteads. He wore, as usual, a round black hat, green with age and a long serge overcoat with capacious pockets. His curling beard, flecked with grey, received a caress from his hand as he sighted Sammy.
‘Sammy, my poy, vhat a pleasure, ain’t it?’
‘I ain’t denyin’ it, Eli, old cock,’ said Sammy, and shook hands with his old friend who had always been an invaluable business help. ‘Seeing I was on my way to our Oxford Street emporium, I thought I’d pop in and see how you were.’
Mr Greenberg, now a married man with three healthy stepsons, said ‘Vell might you enquire, Sammy, vell you might. Ain’t my good vife’s boys eatin’ me out of house and home?’
‘It’s hard, Eli, I know, and I daresay it hurts as well,’ said Sammy, ‘but what’s a hole in your pocket when there’s a good wife warmin’ your bed and doin’ your washin’ for you?’
‘True, Sammy, true, consolations ain’t to be sniffed at,’ said Mr Greenberg, ‘but the emptying of a poor man’s pocket is a sad thing.’
‘Granted,’ said Sammy, ‘but as long as we’ve both got enough to keep the bailiffs from cleaning us out, there’s no point in committin’ suicide.’
‘Vell, there’s alvays friendship, my poy, even if it does cost money sometimes. Now, vhile you’re here and have a few minutes to spare,
come into my office and I vill speak to you about if I should beggar my poor self by buying a small brewery to be run by Hannah’s sons.’
‘That kind of discussion is meat and drink, Eli,’ said Sammy, ‘and I wouldn’t be the bloke I am if I didn’t participate with a willing heart and without chargin’ you for me advice.’
‘Ain’t that music to my ears, Sammy, vhen ve both know some varm hearts come expensive?’
‘I concur, Eli. I also agree. Lead the way.’
They’ve forgotten to let the blind up, thought Tilly, at a little after ten. Does that woman think I’m sitting here to get a look at her private bedroom life during daytime? Or is she at a bottle?
Tilly put that unneighbourly thought out of her mind, and, seated at her machine, absorbed herself in her dressmaking. The blind at the window facing her across the adjoining back yards stayed down.
Downstairs, Cassie was talking to her charges. She was going to take them out, round to her own home again, and then for a walk, having discovered they couldn’t do as much damage out of doors as when they were in. She’d bring them back for their midday meal, and when they’d had that she was going to take them to Mrs Tompkins across the street. Their dad had arranged for Mrs Tompkins to keep a kind eye on them for the afternoon.
‘All right?’ she said.
‘We don’t mind,’ said Bubbles.
‘Ev’ryone looks after us a bit,’ said Penny-Farving.
‘Except our muvver,’ said Bubbles.
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ said Cassie, ‘it’s a shame she can’t get ’ome more often.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Penny-Farving.
‘We don’t like ’er comin’ home,’ said Bubbles.
‘She shouts at our dad,’ said Penny-Farving.
‘Oh, poor woman,’ said Cassie. ‘Never mind, you can come home with me now, but first we’ll go and knock at the ’ouse of the lady next door. You’ve seen my parrot lots, but you ’aven’t seen Mrs ’Arper’s, and she just might let you this mornin’. Come on.’
When Mrs Harper answered Cassie’s knock, her eyes alighted immediately on Bubbles and Penny-Farving.
‘What’re them little terrors doin’ on me doorstep?’ she asked.
‘Oh, they’re quite nice little girls really, Mrs ’Arper,’ said Cassie in her blithe way, ‘and they’d like it ever so much if they could come in and see Percy.’
‘Oh, they would, would they?’ said Mrs Harper, florid face looking a bit sour. ‘First thing them nice little girls ’ud do would be to turn ’is cage upside-down.’
‘Oh, they wouldn’t do that, Mrs ’Arper, I’d see they didn’t,’ said Cassie.
Mrs Harper gave that some thought.
‘Well, all right, bring ’em through,’ she said, ‘but take ’old of them and don’t let go of them.’
‘Come on,’ said Cassie to the girls, and she took hold of their hands and went through to the kitchen with them, where she did the honours herself by introducing them to Percy. Percy eyed them brightly, and Mrs Harper eyed them warningly.
‘Go on, say ’ello to ’im,’ said Cassie.
‘’Ello, Percy,’ said both girls. Percy responded in peculiar fashion.
‘I’ll hit yer,’ he said.
Well, that was what it sounded like to Cassie.
‘Mrs ’Arper, why’s he say that?’ she asked.
‘Say what?’ said Mrs Harper.
‘That ’e’d hit us,’ said Cassie.
Mrs Harper laughed.
‘’E don’t mean it,’ she said.
‘Hello, sailor,’ said Percy, ‘give us a kiss.’
‘There y’ar,’ said Mrs Harper, ‘’e likes yer.’
‘Can I tickle ’im?’ asked Penny-Farving.
‘Best not,’ said Mrs Harper, ‘you might poke ’is eye out and ’e’ll bite yer finger off.’
‘Who’s a pretty girl, then?’ said Percy, and Dan’s two angels giggled.
‘Well, you can say goodbye to ’im now,’ said Mrs Harper, ‘I’m a bit busy.’
‘Goodbye, Percy,’ said the angels.
‘I’ll hit yer,’ said Percy, or something like that.
‘What a funny parrot,’ said Cassie. ‘Cecil’s sort of more serious. Well, thanks ever so much, Mrs ’Arper. Come on, you two.’
Mrs Harper saw them out with a fairly amiable goodbye. Well, it was best to be neighbourly.
Tilly had enjoyed an unbothered day. She’d done some uninterrupted sewing and some shopping. She’d had a sandwich and a pot of tea at midday, and now, at fifteen minutes to four, she was cutting material with her dressmaking scissors. On the model in a corner of the room was a finished blouse. She had a skirt to make now, and when that was done she would begin the dresses for Bubbles and Penny-Farving. The mental note she made of that took hold of her mind. Bother it, she said to herself for the first time that day. She’d heard the little girls downstairs when they were having their midday meal with Cassie. How two girls as young as they were could make so much noise had to be heard to be believed. High spirits. It was in their favour, she thought, that they could be high-spirited when they were so neglected by their mother. They were little girls running wild. If that dad of theirs didn’t do something about taming Gladys Hobday, he’d be faced with the problem of always needing someone to look after them. ‘Someone’ could be a succession of different faces and different attitudes.
They had left the house with Cassie at one o’clock, however, and now they were on Tilly’s mind. She frowned. Glancing, she saw that the blind was up in the window opposite. She shook herself, and began to use her scissors again. She heard the front door open and the chattering voices of Bubbles and Penny-Farving. The door closed and she heard them go into the parlour. They’d get up to something in there if no-one was with them.
Blow it, thought Tilly, why should I worry? They’re not my kids, they’re Gladys Hobday’s, a freak of a woman who’s barmy about spending her life balancing on a tightrope. What a loony that man is, falling for a tarted-up hussy just because she looks good in tights. Oh, Lord, there they go, Bubbles and Penny-Farving, jumping and yelling. Next thing they’ll be trying to walk a tightrope themselves, in the parlour.
Crash. Something had gone.
Down went Tilly, sighing.
In the parlour, Bubbles and Penny-Farving were looking at a vase on the lino. It was in pieces.
‘That ain’t very clever, is it?’ said Tilly.
‘It fell off the window ledge,’ said Penny-Farving.
‘She did it,’ said Bubbles.
‘No, I didn’t, you did,’ said Penny-Farving.
‘It just fell off,’ said Bubbles.
‘Well, whoever did it can pick the pieces up,’ said Tilly. ‘No, you’d better not or you’ll manage to cut your fingers off. Aren’t you supposed to ’ave someone lookin’ after you?’
‘Yes, we been across to Mrs Tompkins,’ said Penny-Farving, ‘but she sent us ’ome.’
‘She said we was tryin’ to tie ’er kettle to ’er cat’s tail,’ said Bubbles.
‘And were you?’ asked Tilly.
‘We emptied it of water first,’ said Penny-Farving.
‘Tilly, could yer make us a cup of tea?’ asked Bubbles, long frock dusty, face needing a wash.
‘Only if you promise to sit quiet,’ said Tilly.
‘Can we do it upstairs in your room?’ asked Penny-Farving.
‘Do what upstairs?’
‘Sit quiet,’ said Penny-Farving.
‘You can try it first at your kitchen table,’ said Tilly. She took them into the kitchen, made them sit down and then put the kettle on. She noted how tidy the kitchen and scullery looked. That was Cassie’s doing. Now there was a very nice girl, a typical daughter of Walworth in having been brought up to make herself useful at the tender age of fourteen. God alone knew what Bubbles and Penny-Farving would be like at fourteen. Well, at least they were fairly quiet now. They each had a box of water-colour paints out and a painti
ng book, and were actually absorbing themselves.
Tilly made the tea, gave them a cup each and poured one for herself. And finding what was left of a baker’s cake in the larder, she gave them each a slice. By which time, when her back had been turned only while she looked into the larder, they had managed to paint each other’s faces a bright green.
‘You imps,’ she said.
‘Don’t Penny-Farvin’ look funny?’ said Bubbles.
‘So do you,’ said Penny-Farving, and they giggled.
‘Right,’ said Tilly, ‘you can sit there with green faces and drink your tea and eat your cake. Then when your dad comes in, p’raps ’e can see how funny you both look.’
‘Yes, won’t ’e laugh?’ said Bubbles.
‘Dad’s always laughin’,’ said Penny-Farving.
Tilly counted silently to ten, and that saved her from telling the girls some home truths about that cheerful Charlie. She stayed there in the kitchen and made them apply themselves sensibly to their painting. She ended up sitting between them, mothering them, and when she realized what she was doing she told herself she’d been victimized into the role by the absent figure of their father.
She was there when he came in from his work, pleasantly attired in his suit with no signs of motor oil about him, and carrying a shopping bag.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘that’s nice of you to be sittin’ with the girls, Tilly.’
‘’Ello, Dad,’ said Bubbles, and she and Penny-Farving lifted their green-painted faces.
Dan looked, blinked and shouted with laughter.
Tilly, who had spent a couple of hours of her precious working time with the girls, rarely let the fact that she was a lady hold her back from doing what she felt a woman had got to do. She jumped up. Dan, reading the danger signals, said a hasty something about needing to go upstairs. He disappeared, leaving the shopping bag on a chair.
‘Stay there, you two,’ said Tilly, and went after him. He was up the stairs and into the landing lav before she could catch him, and he locked himself in. Tilly banged on the door.
‘Come out, you coward!’
‘D’you mind if I don’t, Tilly?’
‘Yes, I do mind. Come out. I’ve got things to say to you.’
‘What things?’
‘I’m not shoutin’ them at you through the key’ole. Come out.’
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