So Long at the Fair

by Pat Herbert

  “Mister, did you know you’ve got your collar on back to front?”

  Little Alfie Fisher giggled with glee as he stared up at him. Mrs Harper yanked her charge roughly across the threshold of the vicarage.

  “Don’t try and be clever,” she scolded. “’E’s probably ’eard that ’undreds of times before.”

  Bernard, who had indeed heard the ‘witticism’ more times than he could count, looked gratefully at his housekeeper and smiled. He was standing in the hall ready to greet his new guest and wasn’t favourably impressed. Alfie Fisher looked as if he’d come straight out of the Beano, complete with droopy socks and dripping nose. However, he managed to smile at him and offered him his hand.

  “How do you do, young man?” he said, recoiling as he realised the little boy’s hand was sticky and very dirty. “What have you been holding?” he demanded, wiping his hand on the seat of his trousers.

  “Just my humbug,” said the boy, giving a sniff that would have done Mrs Harper proud.

  “Well I should put it in your mouth where it belongs,” advised Bernard. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs Harper will show you your room and get you your tea.” He looked meaningfully at her as he said this.

  “Come on, Alfie,” she instructed him. “Leave the vicar in peace. I’ve got some nice jam tarts for your tea. If you’re good.”

  The mention of jam tarts did the trick, and he followed her meekly to his room, clutching his little leather case.

  “Oh, Mrs Harper,” Bernard called after their retreating backs. “Where’s Beelzebub?”

  “Be-el-ze-bub?” Alfie started to giggle. “What a name! What is it?”

  “It’s a cat,” Bernard informed him. “A black cat. He belongs to me.”

  “Why d’you call him that funny name?”

  “It’s a long story...” sighed Bernard. Too long for a short arse like you, he added, strictly to himself. “Now just run along. Mrs Aitch will look after you.”

  “The last time I saw the cat,” said Mrs Harper, pulling the child by his left ear, “was earlier this afternoon when I saw him swearing at next door’s ginger tom. They were going at it ’ammer and tongs.”

  “Oh, right,” said Bernard, turning to make his way back up to his study where next Sunday’s sermon was waiting for him to write.

  

  Mrs Harper felt like tearing her hair out. It hadn’t taken her long to regret agreeing to take on the care of her great-nephew. If she had had to bring up the little brat herself, she would have drowned him long ago. Put him in a sack and drowned him like a bunch of unwanted kittens.

  Always under her feet, he was into everything. Before she could put the jam tarts in the oven, he had licked out the jam from most of them. He had put the cat in the larder to let it run riot and eat the cheese and spill the milk, not to mention chewing its way through a roast chicken leg. The poor thing was only released when Mrs Harper opened the door to get some ingredients for a suet pudding she had decided to make for Bernard’s supper. Alfie had also tied a pink ribbon to its tail, which didn’t improve the feline’s temper or its behaviour. Immediately it was let out of the larder it urinated on the kitchen floor, which wasn’t surprising, as the poor brute had been trapped in the larder for several hours and was also full of milk.

  Alfie had also managed to ruin a pair of shoes trying to climb the oak tree in the garden, as well as tearing his shirt and shorts in the process. Not an inch of his face was ever clean for more than two minutes at a time. Mrs Harper had tried to keep him out of mischief by buying him a jigsaw, colouring books, and crayons. The result wasn’t quite what she’d hoped, however, as he set about crayoning in the pictures haphazardly, tearing the book as he pressed harder and harder into the pages. As for the jigsaw (a nice picture of a bright red London bus in Trafalgar Square): this he proceeded to empty all over the living room carpet and tread into the shag pile.

  So, it was with some relief that she accepted Robbie’s offer of taking him to the fair.

  “Are you really offering to take ’im to the fair, Doc? Blimey! Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”

  Robbie smiled. “I think so, Mrs Aitch,” he said. “He’s a bit of a tinker, eh?”

  Mrs Harper gave one of her meaningful sniffs. “That’s putting it mild, Doc.”

  “Never mind. Young lads have a lot of energy and need to get rid of it. A day at the fair should tire him out for you. Besides, Bernie’s coming too, so between us we should be able to keep him under control.”

  “You don’t know ’ow grateful I am,” said Mrs Harper, pouring him a cup of tea.

  The two of them were sitting in the sunny vicarage kitchen less than twenty-four hours after the arrival of young Alfie. “Where’s the vicar, by the way?” she asked, spooning two sugars into the doctor’s cup. “Didn’t you come to see ’im?”

  “I did, Mrs Aitch,” said Robbie, taking the tea gratefully. “But I could hear you shouting at the little chap, so I thought I’d come and see you first before going up. See if I could help in any way. Where is he now? Not up to no good, I trust?”

  “I chased him out into the garden,” declared Mrs Harper. “He was getting on my nerves that much. But I know ’e’ll be climbing that blessed tree again. I’m that tired, Doc. ’Ave you got any pick-me-ups? Pep pills or something?” The buxom housekeeper pushed a stray curl back under her turban and sighed heavily.

  “I’ll prescribe you a tonic. Quite harmless, but it should do the trick.” He withdrew a prescription pad from his inside jacket pocket and proceeded to scratch illegibly over its surface. “There,” he said with a final flourish of his fountain pen, “you take that to the chemists. It’ll have you right as ninepence in no time.”

  She took the piece of paper gingerly. “Only ’ope you’re right,” she said grudgingly.

  Adding more hot water to the pot and covering it with a tea cosy, she passed the tray to Robbie. “Would you mind taking ’is nibs’s tea up when you go?”

  “Of course,” said Robbie.

  As he climbed the stairs to his friend’s study, he began to have misgivings. The outing to the fair was set for the following Saturday, just two days away, and judging by Mrs Harper’s report of Alfie’s escapades so far, he wondered if he and Bernard had taken on a bit too much. But the poor old housekeeper needed a break from the little beast, so it was the least they could do.

  “Tea up!” he called to his friend cheerfully, as he entered the study.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  April 1959

  “Albert’s downstairs wanting to see you, Vicar,” announced Mrs Harper, standing at the study door the next evening.

  Bernard and Robbie looked guilty as they could see her look of displeasure taking in the whisky and sherry glasses on the table between them. It wasn’t as if they indulged heavily; indeed, Bernard’s alcohol intake was minimal by any standards. But both men knew Mrs Harper disapproved of strong liquor, and this disapproval usually manifested itself in the withdrawal of homemade scones or smaller helpings of steak and kidney pie. Bernard, especially, sought always to stay on her good side for that reason alone.

  “Albert?”

  “You know – Williams – the plumber.”

  “Oh, young Albert! Send him up,” declared Bernard. “He’s a nice chap, Robbie. I wonder what he wants, Mrs Aitch?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” she sniffed. “’E didn’t tell me.” She looked put out.

  “Never mind,” said Bernard, “just send him up, please.”

  Albert appeared at the door, cap in hand, a few moments later. “I – I’m sorry, sir,” he began. “I didn’t realise you had company...”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Albert. It’s only Robbie. You know him, don’t you?”

  “No, not personally. I’m under Dr Mallinger, actually.”

  Robbie bristled visibly. “That charlatan,” he muttered under his breath.

  “I – I’ll come back another time,” said Albert.

&nb
sp; “Don’t be silly,” insisted Bernard. “Take no notice of my grumpy friend. Can’t stand competition, I’m afraid.”

  Albert smiled shyly at Robbie. “It’s nothing personal, you know, Doctor. It’s only that Mallinger is nearer than your surgery.”

  Robbie smiled back. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “You’re perfectly entitled to see whichever doctor you like.”

  “Anyway, Albert,” interrupted Bernard, “can I get you a sherry – or a whisky? Or would you prefer tea?”

  “Er, nothing for me, thank you.” Albert still stood in the middle of the room, nervously twiddling his cap.

  “Pull up my desk chair,” said Bernard. “Come and sit here.”

  When Albert was settled, Bernard coughed. “So, what can I do for you? I have recommended you to everyone I know. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you were able to fix the old boiler.”

  “I enjoyed fixing it,” said Albert. “I learnt a lot in the process, so it’s me who should be grateful to you.”

  “Not at all. Anyway, Albert, what brings you to see me this evening?”

  “Er, your housekeeper suggested you might be able to help me. She said you loved a mystery to solve.”

  Bernard looked at Robbie and Robbie looked at Bernard. This sounded promising. It was about time something interesting happened; life had been a little flat lately.

  Albert paused before continuing. He felt a little out of his depth, seeing both a vicar and a doctor way above him in the professional hierarchy.

  “Well, Albert?” prodded Bernard eagerly. “You said you had a mystery for us?”

  “Yes, well sort of...”

  Robbie rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Good, good. Come on then. We’re both sitting comfortably...”

  “It’s about my grandmother,” he began at last. “On my father’s side.”

  “Your paternal grandmother,” Bernard clarified unnecessarily. “Right. What about her?”

  “She – that is – no one in our family knows much about her. She – she came to a bad end, that’s all I know.”

  Albert proceeded to tell the two men what he had told Mrs Harper when he had come to fix the boiler. “I think Dad knows more than he’s telling,” he concluded, “but he won’t say. Says it’s better to leave well alone.” He sounded peevish.

  “I see,” said Bernard thoughtfully. “So, you basically want to know what happened to her after she left your father at the orphanage?”

  “That’s it,” agreed Albert. “So, I decided to rummage through Dad’s things; something I would never do normally. It’s just that, well, I need to know, and he won’t tell me.”

  “I understand,” said Bernard. “Go on.”

  “I thought there might be something to tell me more about her, and – well, I found it. I feel so disloyal to Dad, but I can’t let it rest now.”

  “Come on,” said Robbie eagerly. “What did you find?”

  “This.” Albert handed him a folded piece of paper. It crackled with age as Robbie took it. The stiff-ish paper was yellowed and brown around the edges, and he was careful not to damage it further as he opened it up.

  “As you can see, it’s a death certificate.”

  Bernard looked at it over Robbie’s shoulder. “Olivia Ayrton-Williams. Is that your grandmother’s name?”

  “That’s right,” replied Albert. “The ‘Ayrton’ part is a bit of a puzzle, though. We don’t know where it came from. Dad said there’s no one in our family with a name like that. He said he thought she’d made it up to make her seem more important.”

  “Why would she do that?” Bernard was puzzled. “Does that mean you think your father didn’t approve of her for that reason? I mean, I presume he had something against her; otherwise, why wouldn’t he tell you about her?”

  “Oh, there’s much more to it than that,” said Albert, “but I suppose it’s an indication of what she was like.”

  “So, she was only twenty-nine when she died,” observed Robbie thoughtfully, studying the certificate.

  “Yes, and you can see what they give as the cause of death.”

  “I can, laddie,” said Robbie, pointing this out to Bernard. “Due to injuries sustained in a fall.”

  “That opens up all sorts of possibilities,” said Bernard. “I see she did die in this borough like you thought, Albert.”

  “Yes. In 1895.”

  “Well,” said Bernard, returning to his chair. “It seems you’ve solved the mystery without your father’s help.”

  Albert looked doubtful. “I suppose I have, but why would Dad keep this from me? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Robbie rubbed his chin, considering. “If she committed suicide, he might be ashamed of her for that reason.”

  “It doesn’t mention suicide on the certificate,” Albert pointed out.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” said Bernard. “It only cites the cause, not what led to it. Yes, I think suicide’s a strong possibility. I’m sorry, Albert. I suppose she was desperate, being an unmarried mother.”

  “But she dumped Dad so she could be free to start again,” protested Albert. “So, why would she kill herself?”

  Bernard shrugged. “Her reputation in tatters, possibly? People used to set much more store by such things back then.”

  Albert still wasn’t convinced.

  “What are you thinking, laddie?” asked Robbie, obviously one step ahead of Bernard and probably Albert too.

  “I – I don’t really know. But something’s not right. Dad wouldn’t have kept suicide from me, I’m sure. It’s something much more serious.”

  “Like murder, you mean?” Robbie’s eyes were glinting with excitement.

  Albert looked shocked for a moment and then sighed. “Yes, I reckon that’s what I mean,” he said.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Bernard and Robbie in unison.

  Albert looked at them with surprise. “You don’t seem shocked.”

  Bernard coughed. “We are, of course, we are. But such things do happen and often to ordinary people.”

  “Yes, I know that’s true. And it makes sense that Dad took his mother’s name – the Williams bit anyway after his adoptive mother died.”

  “Why do you think that?” asked Bernard.

  “Because it shows he must have felt some affinity to her – over and above his adoptive name. Maybe because of the way she died.”

  Robbie wasn’t sure about that. “It could just be because his adoptive name wasn’t very – er, well, it might have been a bit odd – or foreign, or something?”

  Albert smiled. “Not unless you count Irish as foreign. It was Downing.”

  “Hmm, not that funny, then.”

  “No. That’s another thing I don’t understand. I asked Dad many times why he changed his name, but all he said was that Williams was his real name. And when I asked how his poor adoptive mother would have felt about that, he just shrugged and said he didn’t care what she thought.”

  “So, another mystery,” said Bernard.

  “Yes,” agreed Albert. “I really need some answers to all this. I want my past to be an open book because – ”

  “Because?”

  “I want to get married.”

  “Oh, I see,” smiled Bernard. Then he looked serious again. “Your mother – you haven’t mentioned her. Is she – is she...?” Bernard was nervous.

  “Is she still alive?” Albert finished for him.

  “Yes,” said Bernard, looking down at his feet. “Is she?”

  “For all I know,” said the young man sadly. “She left me and Dad when I was two. All I have is her photograph.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” muttered Bernard in dismay. “So, you don’t know what’s happened to her either?”

  “No idea,” shrugged Albert. “Dad won’t even let me talk about her.”

  Bernard coughed and surreptitiously removed a tear from the corner of his eye. This poor young man had more than his fair share of family problems, he thought. A mother he never knew, a
father who was born out of wedlock and a grandmother who could have been murdered. Not the best pedigree in the world, especially to start married life with.

  Albert looked down at his feet and twiddled with his cap again. “I would just like to find out what really happened to my grandmother. I believe that’s the key to it all. Once I know that everything will fall into place.”

  Bernard had an idea. “You could visit the newspaper archives and look up the local papers for 1895 and see if anything was reported about your grandmother’s death.”

  “Good idea!” agreed Robbie. “Why don’t you go with him, Bernie?”

  “I’d be happy to, if you would like me to, Albert.”

  Albert smiled again. “I’d like that very much, Vicar, if you can spare the time.”

  “Of course, I’m a busy man,” Bernard prevaricated, thinking that Robbie could have volunteered as well but pushed the thought aside as unkind. Robbie’s medical duties were more time-consuming that his spiritual ones, as he had more time on his hands than he cared to admit.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Albert, his smile disappearing. “I’m sure I can manage. Where is the archive?”

  “Oh, not to worry,” said Bernard quickly, “I only meant I’ll need to arrange the best time we can go. After all, you’re a busy man, too, Albert, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve got that much work on at the moment,” agreed Albert. “Anyway, there’s no rush. Whenever it’s convenient.”

  So, it was agreed that Bernard would accompany young Albert to the North London newspaper archive at some date in the near future.

  “I’m sure we’ll find something, Albert,” said Bernard, patting him on the shoulder as he showed him out.

  “I hope so,” said Albert, putting on his much-twiddled cap. “But I hope she wasn’t murdered, that I do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  April 1959

  Albert was feeling guilty. He had gone behind his father’s back, first by digging out the death certificate from among his private things and, second, by telling the vicar all about his grandmother’s death. But he wasn’t sorry, as he now had a positive way forward, even at the expense of deceiving his father.