“Oh, dear,” said Tillie.
“We have a lovely gentleman who was badly burned,” said Sparks. “It’s startling when you first meet him, but within minutes of speaking to him, you completely forget about it.”
“So, our question is would you consider one of these wounded or disfigured heroes?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge.
“I know that I’m supposed to say yes, of course,” said Tillie. “That I would do anything for the lads. But I’m the one who would have to live with them forever, aren’t I?”
“You are,” said Sparks.
“I’d like, you know, I’d like a bit of something to look at while I’m doing the wifely duty,” said Tillie. “It’s what they want from me, so why shouldn’t I be the same?”
“You’re saying that looks are important,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.
“I suppose they shouldn’t be,” said Tillie. “But I’ve had men chasing after me since I was too young, and it had nothing to do with my personality.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be wanted for your personality?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge.
“Yeah, I would,” said Tillie. “It’s why I came here, isn’t it? And I know that I just said I want a man who looks all right, so bad on me for being confusing. He doesn’t have to be a heartstopper. I just want something more than the bare minimum. And if he’s missing a leg, he won’t even be that.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Any other physical preferences?”
“All of his hair still on his head,” said Tillie promptly.
“Noted,” said Sparks. “Height?”
“Be hard to find one shorter than me,” said Tillie.
“Oh, no, it isn’t,” said Sparks. “We have several.”
“Well, save them for the girls who like short men,” said Tillie.
“Right,” said Sparks. “If they run to fat…”
“We all will eventually,” said Tillie. “With luck and no rationing. I don’t mind a bit extra around the waist.”
“Interests? Hobbies?”
“Never had time or money for any,” said Tillie.
“Anything you don’t want in a gentleman?”
“No gambling. No drinkers.”
“Smokers?” asked Sparks.
“As long as he shares,” she said, grinning. “Ciggies are my secret vice.”
“Right, that should give us enough of an idea to pair you up with someone,” said Sparks.
“How long will it take?” asked Tillie.
“We’ll be in touch with a suitable candidate by this afternoon’s post,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “You should be hearing within two to three days.”
“That quick?” exclaimed Tillie. “I won’t even have time to get my hair done.”
“Your hair looks fine,” Mrs. Bainbridge assured her.
“Oh, Lord, I’ll be in all of a dither waiting,” said Tillie. “It’s rather exciting, isn’t it?”
“That’s all part of the experience,” said Mrs. Bainbridge, rising to shake her hand once more. “So nice to have met you, Miss La Salle.”
“Likewise,” said Tillie. “Ta ta.”
“Ta ta,” said Sparks.
Iris watched Tillie leave, then drummed her fingers on her desk.
“What?” demanded Gwen.
“A hunch,” said Iris, getting up. “Be right back.”
She walked out of the office and peered down the stairwell. Tillie was one storey down.
“Miss La Salle,” called Sparks.
Tillie looked up at her in surprise.
“One last question, if you could wait one second,” said Sparks.
She hurried down the stairs to where Tillie was waiting, then looked around to make certain they weren’t being overheard.
“Yes?” said Tillie.
“Stockings,” whispered Sparks.
“What?”
“Help a girl out,” said Sparks conspiratorially. “I ruined my last pair, and I’m short coupons. Have you got a place?”
“It’s illegal,” said Tillie indignantly.
“Come on,” said Sparks. “Everyone’s got a fiddle. I’m desperate for them.”
“You’ll find me a nice bloke?” said Tillie.
“I have the perfect match in mind already,” said Sparks. “You’ll like him, I promise.”
“Well,” said Tillie, biting her lower lip while she considered. Then she smiled. “All right, then. There’s a pub called Merle’s on Wapping High Street. There’s a spiv named Archie, usually sits at one of the tables in the back with his mates. Tell him Tillie sent you, and he’ll fix you up.”
“Thanks,” said Sparks. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Anything else?”
“No,” said Sparks. “Back to work for me.”
“Ta, then. Remember, no short men!”
“No short men.”
“If I wanted a jockey, I’d go to the Derby,” said Tillie, and she disappeared down the stairwell.
Iris climbed back to their office and returned to her desk. She moved her Bar-Let typewriter to the center of the desk, then rolled a piece of foolscap into it.
“Did your hunch prove correct?” asked Gwen.
“It did,” replied Iris as she began typing her notes of the interview.
“What was it about?”
“Her stockings.”
“Were her seams not straight?”
“The seams were straight,” said Iris. “The girl is crooked.”
“I thought so as well,” said Gwen. “Something about her struck me as shady.”
“She’s a shady lady from Shadwell,” sang Iris. “And you oughter see her shimmy and shake!”
“The music halls lost so much when you retired,” murmured Gwen. “How did her stockings set off your alarms?”
“That she had them. And that skirt—more pleats than a dozen honest English girls have, much beyond regulation.”
“I never thought about that,” said Gwen.
“Well, let’s be honest, dear, you have a ton of clothes—”
“Certainly not.”
“All that I’m saying is that having used most of my coupons on this tweed suit, which I needed for this venture of ours, I am painfully aware of when another girl shows up wearing something non-reg. You, with your fabulous pre-wardrobe, are not.”
“I could loan you—”
“No, thanks,” said Iris. “I would have to stand on Miss La Salle’s shoulders to fit into one of your lovely frocks.”
“I was going to say stockings.”
“Same problem,” sighed Iris. “Oh, if I had your legs, I could get places in half the time. Why did you think she was—oh!”
There was a man standing at the door, wearing a dustman’s coverall, his cap in hand.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude,” he said. “Is this all right, or do you need to make an appointment?”
“You’ve just made one,” said Mrs. Bainbridge, stepping from behind her desk to usher him in. “I am Mrs. Bainbridge. This is my partner, Miss Sparks.”
“How do you do?” said Sparks.
“’Ow d’you do?” returned the man. “Name’s Alfred Manners, though me mum says I got none, ha ha!”
“Ha ha,” echoed Sparks.
“How may we help you, Mister Manners?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge, directing him to the chair.
“I been passing by, regular-like,” he said, sitting down. “Keep seeing the lovely green sign, think to meself, Alf, maybe they got a girl for you.”
“Maybe we have,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.
“So, I finally decided to see what’s what,” he said.
Then he looked at them expectantly.
“What’s what is we are a licensed marriage bureau,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “We have a growing clientele of both sexes, and we seek to find couples who would be amenable—”
“Amenable. What’s that?” asked Manners.
“Compatible,” said Mrs. Bainbridge, pausing as he continued to
look at her blankly. “Suitable for each other.”
“The Right Sort!” he said, brightening.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Now, there is an initial fee—”
“How much?”
“Five pounds, then—”
“Five quid!” he exclaimed. “Just to meet a girl? There’s mott shops that charge less.”
“Not just any girl,” continued Mrs. Bainbridge determinedly. “One that we believe will match up with your personality and preferences.”
“Are you saying I got preferences?” said Manners indignantly.
“What you prefer, what you like in a woman,” said Mrs. Bainbridge as Sparks suppressed a grin.
“Oh,” said Manners. “Think you could fix me up with that bird who just left? She was a bit of a looker, no argument.”
“Which bird?” asked Sparks.
“The one what was ’ere before,” said Manners.
“Mister Manners, we maintain the privacy of our clientele,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “As we would maintain yours should you choose to join us.”
“I don’t have five quid on me,” said Manners.
“Then let me provide you with one of our adverts,” said Mrs. Bainbridge, taking one from a pile on her desk and giving it to him. “Should you wish to avail yourself of our services, you may make an appointment.”
“Right,” he said, taking it. He glanced over the two of them appraisingly. “Are you two on the list?”
“We are not,” said Sparks quickly.
“Pity,” he said, leering. “But never say never, right?”
“Good day, Mister Manners,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “We hope to be hearing from you shortly.”
He put his cap back on, touched two fingers to the brim in salute, then sauntered off.
They waited until they heard his footsteps fade down the stairwell.
“Never,” said Gwen.
“Never, never, never,” said Iris, and the two of them began to giggle.
“Oh, dear, he was dreadful,” said Gwen. “I’ll bet you tuppence he doesn’t come back.”
“No bet,” said Iris. “No woman is worth five pounds to him.”
“You know, I believe that is the first conversation that I’ve ever had with a dustman,” mused Gwen. “It’s wonderful how broadening an experience this life is. He smelled much better than I would have expected.”
“We’re in Mayfair,” said Iris, finishing her notes. “Even the dustmen are upper-class.”
“Mott house,” said Gwen thoughtfully. “Is that what I think it is?”
“What do you think it is?” asked Iris innocently.
“A, um, a house…”
“A house is a house, certainly,” said Iris.
“Of—ill repute,” finished Gwen, blushing deeply.
“Ill repute?” gasped Iris. “You mean—a bordello?”
“Well—”
“A brothel?”
“Stop it.”
“A whorehouse!” wailed Iris melodramatically, pressing the back of her wrist to her forehead and swooning in her chair.
“You’re making fun of me,” said Gwen. “You knew what it was right away.”
“I did,” said Iris. “But I have the benefit of a Cambridge education.”
“Which class did you learn it in, I wonder?” said Gwen. “Are you done with that form?”
Iris pulled it from the typewriter and handed it along with Miss La Salle’s signed contract to Gwen, who read them over, then paper-clipped them together and put them inside the file cabinet in the corner behind her.
Iris took a pair of index cards, then placed a piece of carbon paper between them. She rolled them carefully into the typewriter, then typed in a short summary of Miss La Salle’s preferences and incidentals. When she was done, she separated them.
“Your turn for the carbon,” she said, handing the bottom one to Gwen. “Now, tell me—why did you think she was wrong?”
“Something about her responses,” said Gwen. “Not that she was lying so much as she was leaving some things out.”
“Do you think she warrants further vetting?” asked Iris.
“I don’t think that she’s an adventuress,” said Gwen. “But we do want to make certain we’re not foisting a criminal upon anyone. We have our reputation to maintain.”
“I’ll make some calls,” said Iris. “Should we hold off on the matching?”
“No, let’s go ahead,” said Gwen. “We promised her a quick result. If your friend with the police finds anything, we can always contact the gentleman candidate and cancel. I will say, she speaks well for one of her background. I would have expected some dropped h’s.”
“She has aspirations to higher things,” said Iris. “Right, let’s get cracking, shall we? Miss La Salle is Female Candidate Number 102.”
They each wrote it on their index cards, then placed them in green metal index boxes labeled F. Then they each moved another box labeled M in front of them.
“Ready?” asked Gwen.
“Ready,” answered Iris.
“Then begin,” said Gwen. “And no short, bald Irishmen, as tempting as that would be.”
Iris began looking through her cards at the eligible bachelors. She found one she thought might do, pulled out the card and studied it, then placed it to the side. She glanced over at Gwen.
“No peeking,” said Gwen without looking up.
They each proceeded until they had three cards in front of them. Iris gave her group one more perusal, then switched the second and third ones. Gwen waited, her order undisturbed.
“Shall I go first?” she asked.
“Please do.”
Gwen held up a card.
“Sydney Collins,” she said.
“Interesting,” commented Iris. “Yes, I can see it now. He didn’t leap out. Right, my third choice is Morris Cannon.”
“Hmm,” said Gwen.
“You don’t like him?”
“I think we can do better.”
“Give me your second choice.”
“Alex Renbourn,” said Gwen.
“Mine as well,” said Iris, grinning and holding it up. “Are we about to have a great-minds moment?”
“Let’s savour it, shall we?” suggested Gwen.
She took her final card, clutched it to her bosom, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. Then she turned it towards Iris.
“Yes!” cried Iris, holding hers up. “Dickie Trower!”
“I love it when this happens,” sighed Gwen. “Now, tell me why you chose him.”
“He’s an accountant, but he comes from working-class people,” said Iris. “Not a snob at all. He’s shy with women—remember how he kept blushing being in the room with the two of us? But he’s also on the move up, so Tillie will be more than happy to hitch her wagon to his rising star, or whatever that expression is.”
“You make it all so mercenary,” complained Gwen.
“I call it practical,” declared Iris. “It’s a step up for him, and she keeps the books at her shop so she’ll impress him with her economy as well as her looks. Now, on what ethereal plane did you put them together?”
“I think she’s a diamond in the rough,” said Gwen. “Mister Trower, underneath his shy exterior, can see the real value of people. He will see hers.”
“But you thought she was shady.”
“I think she’s had a hard life,” said Gwen. “I think that she’ll be forever grateful to him for making her a better one.”
“Then we are agreed.”
“We are,” said Gwen, reaching for her stationery. “Could you pass me a sheet of carbon?”
“Press hard,” intoned Iris. “You are making a copy.”
Gwen wrote out a letter to Mister Trower, detailing how to contact Miss La Salle, then sealed the original in an envelope, which she addressed and stamped. She put the copy in the cabinet with Mister Trower’s file.
“Earned our pay today,” she commented.
“Which
reminds me,” said Iris, gathering Tillie’s banknotes. “Do you want a George or an Edward?”
“Which Edward?”
“The Eighth.”
“George, then.”
“Right. One for you, one for me, three for the kitty.”
She handed a pound over to Gwen. Then she crouched under her desk and slid open the false panel concealing their strongbox. She unlocked it, let the three pounds fall into it, then relocked it and closed the panel.
She straightened up, then looked at her watch.
“Shall we close up?” she asked. “No more appointments.”
“Might as well,” said Gwen.
They collected their coats and left, Iris locking the office behind her.
“Walk with me as far as the park,” Gwen asked as they emerged from the building.
“Gladly,” said Iris.
They walked to Oxford Street, where there was a post box on the corner. Gwen popped the letter to Mister Trower inside, then set off to the west. Iris had to walk quickly to keep up with the taller woman, but Gwen noticed and slowed her pace.
“Thanks,” said Iris.
She took a deep breath and looked up at the clear sky, then sighed.
“Here we are, two girls in Mayfair with the evening ahead of us. It’s the height of the season, and we’re both going home,” she said. “How sad is that?”
“We’re not girls anymore,” commented Gwen.
“Neither are we old maids,” said Iris.
“Speak for yourself,” said Gwen.
“Stop that immediately,” Iris said. “All right, say it’s seven or eight years ago. What would you be doing right about now?”
“I’d be changing from a cocktail dress into an evening gown,” said Gwen, looking dreamily out into the distance.
“Which one?”
“The Molyneux, I should think. It was made of crêpe-de-chine the colour of sea-foam, which brought out my eyes smashingly.”
“And where would you be going?”
“Oh, to some ball or other. Lady Londonderry’s, Lady Cunard’s, maybe one of Mrs. Corrigan’s bashes at the Dudley House. Ever go to those?”
“One,” said Iris. “Had an encounter with the son of the American ambassador there. He was over visiting, an absolutely scrumptious lad. Fairbanks had thrown him a party, I think at Grosvenor House, but I missed that one. I spent half the party at Mrs. Corrigan’s getting my date drunk enough for me to ditch him so I could slip off with the American.”
The Right Sort of Man Page 2