Dorothy Eden (46 page)

“I want to go home! You promised.”

“Sure, you’ll go home today, most likely. But not if you carry on like that.”

Jamie, in spite of his distress, had a wary ear for a promise. He managed to stop sobbing and asked suspiciously, “When?”

“Oh, maybe after dinner. But you’ve got to be good. Your sister’s behaving much better now. She’s getting to know me, see?”

Arabella was sitting on the floor in front of a smoky fire. Jamie didn’t recognize her at first, she looked so funny with her curls cut off. Like a shaved chicken. But she was playing contentedly enough, and when she saw Jamie she gave one of her old joyful gurgles.

“Why did you cut her hair off ?” he asked.

“Because it’s easier to manage this way. I think she looks cute. Now come and eat your porridge and milk, and don’t say you don’t want it because I won’t stand any of that nonsense. I warn you I’m in a bad mood today. I didn’t sleep last night.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got worries, that’s why. And you’re one of them.”

Arabella waved her plump fists and gurgled again. The woman’s face softened curiously. “Hi, gorgeous!” she said. “You’re one of my worries, too. Oh, hell!”

For a moment her face crumpled up as if she were about to cry. Then she shrugged fatalistically and went to spoon hot, lumpy porridge onto a plate.

“The three bears,” she said. “That’s us.”

“Why wouldn’t you let me talk to my mother?” Jamie demanded.

“Full of questions this morning, aren’t you? Because it isn’t convenient just now. You can talk to her all you want when you get home. And that reminds me, I’ll just put the telephone out of reach. I can’t trust you not to play that trick again.”

“I only know two numbers,” said Jamie. “Mummy’s and Flynn’s. Jones showed me how to ring them.”

“Who’s Jones?”

“Just a man. I don’t like this porridge.”

“That’s a pity, isn’t it? But you’ll eat it just the same, or you don’t go home today.”

It really seemed as if she meant to take them home. But, in spite of his swallowing the nasty porridge, and not trying to get the telephone down off the high shelf where she had put it, and making hardly any noise at all, the morning went by without any suggestion being made about leaving. Jamie moped about, bored and irritable. Occasionally he asked questions.

“Will we go by bus?”

“We might.”

“What bus do we catch?”

“A Number 9, maybe.”

“Where’s the bus stop?”

“At the corner.”

She was answering his questions automatically, as she lit one cigarette after another, and kept walking to peer out of the curtained window at the gray day.

“Will you take us right home or just to Woolworth’s?”

“Woolworth’s?” she spun around.

“That’s where you got us from,” Jamie said logically.

“No, I won’t take you home. I’ll leave you in an underground station on a seat in the rush hour, and you’ll look after Arabella until your mother comes.”

Jamie’s eyes widened.

“By ourselves!”

“Why not? A big boy like you can’t look after his baby sister?”

Jamie was impressed and excited by this very daring exploit. He had never been allowed to do anything like that before.

“How will Mummy know to come?”

“She’ll know. She’ll be told. If she behaves herself, the same as you.”

Jamie’s boredom had temporarily vanished.

“Tell me some more.”

But the woman was impatient now.

“There’s nothing more to tell. That’s all there is to it. Simple, isn’t it?”

Jamie watched her curiously as she paced about.

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“My heavens, child, is this a twenty questions session, or what? I don’t want to sit down because I’m waiting for the telephone to ring. Is that clear?”

But it wasn’t the telephone that rang. It was the doorbell.

At first it seemed as if the woman wasn’t going to answer it. Jamie flew to the window to try to see who was at the door, but he was grabbed back instantly.

“Stay away from there!” the woman hissed. “And keep out of sight or you know what will happen to you.”

Jamie refused to be afraid of the threat about the river, but he did know that she could stop him going home if she were really angry. So he lurked in the background while he watched her reach for the key which was on the ledge above the door and insert it in the lock.

She turned it and opened the door, and as the chilly fog swirled in Jamie heard her saying in a cool voice, “Oh, it’s you again, Mrs. Briggs.”

“Well, I ain’t seen you about, dear. I wondered if the kids was all right. And your sister? How’s she, poor dear? I said to my husband last night, if I don’t see nothing of the folks next door in the morning I’m going to inquire.”

“We’re all perfectly all right thank you.”

“Well, I’m pleased to hear that love. And your sister? Was the operation a success?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You’ll be glad about that, won’t you? Well, I suppose if there’s nothing I can do—”

“There isn’t.”

“No need to be short with me, dear. I was only being neighborly.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve got something boiling over on the stove. I’ll have to go.”

Without further ado the door was banged shut, and the woman, running her fingers through her short dark hair, strode up the passage angrily.

“Nosey Parker!” she muttered. “Just trying to snoop, that’s all. Oh, why doesn’t that blasted telephone ring?”

The door banging shut had awakened Arabella and she was crying. The woman went to attend to her. Jamie, left in the hall, gazed in fascination at the door. She had left the key in it. It could be opened and he could get out.

On the haphazard and unpremeditated impulse that had made him dial his mother’s number on the telephone earlier that morning, he opened the door quietly and stepped out into the fog.

The river ran along one side of the street. On the other there was a row of houses that stretched to the corner. At the corner there was a large red bus. As Jamie stared at it in growing excitement, it moved on. But presently there would be another. He fingered the sixpence that had been in his pocket since his mother had given it to him four days ago, and which he had had no opportunity to spend. He would catch a bus home all by himself. He had never been allowed to do such an exciting thing, but it was easy. The woman had said it had to be a number 9. All he had to do was climb on it, and it would take him home.

Suddenly Jamie, still wary, gave a small whoop of joy and began to run hard to the corner.

The conductress looked in some amusement at the still breathless and rather grubby small boy.

“Where do you think you’re going, son ?”

Jamie held out his sixpence.

“I want to get out at Manchester Court, please,” he said, imitating the firm prim manner that Nannie Brown had used on buses.

“Sure. Meeting your girlfriend?” Jamie grinned. “You mean silly old Millie?”

“Silly old Millie, or whoever she is. Does your mother know you’re out?”

“I’m going home to her now,” Jamie said sedately, and settled down to enjoy the ride.

He didn’t know what made him go to the back door at Manchester Court. It was probably a reflex action from never being allowed to do so when he was with his mother or Millie. But it suddenly occurred to him, also, that it would be nice to say hello to Mrs. Helps in passing, and see what color wig she was making. The last time he had seen her it had been that pale one that he had naughtily borrowed, and then thrown in the coal bin.

She wouldn’t believe it when he told her his adventures. “I was nearly thrown in the river,” he would say. “And they cut Arabella’s hair off.” (Was it Mrs. Help who had wanted Arabella’s hair to make another wig?)

Although he had been away a long time, he hadn’t expected her to be quite so surprised to see him. When he opened the door she gave a little scream, and her face went as white as her hair. Then suddenly she took his arm and pulled him inside, and shutting the door hugged him until he could scarcely breathe.

“Oh, Jamie, you’re safe! You’re safe!”

“Course,” he said, in a bored voice. “You’re doing a black one. Can I watch?”

The old lady gasped and trembled, as if she were a thin old tree and someone were shaking her.

“Oh, the wig? Of course you can watch, love. But where did you come from?”

“That house.”

“Which house?”

“The one by the river. I caught a bus all by myself. Who’s the wig for?”

“The wig—oh—Lady Kennelly.”

“Who’s she? Tell me about her!” The old enchantment was creeping on him, the dim room, the strange, faceless heads with their long, shining hair, the old lady weaving her stories about the princesses and the witches and the bad girls for whom she had made wigs. Some of them lived in hovels, she said, and some of them in grand houses with marble staircases and gold ceilings. He wanted to know about this Lady Kennelly. Did she live in a grand house? Or in one with a cold basement and the sound of the river running by, and a doorbell that rang late at night…

Mrs. Helps was watching him with a suddenly secret and wary look.

“Of course I’ll tell you about her, love. But tell me all about what you’ve been doing. Where you’ve been, and who has been looking after you?”

“I told you, I’ve been in that house. Arabella’s there, too. She cried at first, but now she likes the woman better.”

“What woman?”

“The one who made me eat bad porridge.”

“What’s she like?”

Jamie sighed. He was suddenly very tired.

“I don’t know what she’s like. She’s got black hair, like that.” He touched the tresses on the table.”

“What’s her name?”

“She never told me. She was a cross woman. I hated her. Someone comes at night.”

“At night?”

Jamie sighed again. “You said you were going to tell me about Lady Kennelly?”

“In a moment. Who comes at night?”

“I don’t know. I never saw.”

“Then how did you know someone came?”

Jamie thrust his fists into his eyes. “I heard talking the night I was sick. I’m going home now.”

Mrs. Helps sprang up.“No, don’t go home yet, love. I’ve got some cookies for you. Besides you haven’t heard about Lady Kennelly yet, the one who lives in a castle with peacocks on the lawn.”

Against his will Jamie was interested.

“Anyway, your mother won’t be home at present. She’ll be at the theater. There’ll only be Millie, and I expect she isn’t very pleased with you for running away. Look, why don’t you come into my bedroom and have a rest on my bed. I’ll get you a cookie and some milk, and tell you about Lady Kennelly.”

“Not milk that makes me sick.”

“Of course it won’t make you sick. Come along. But first tell me how is Arabella. Is she all right?”

Jamie nodded wearily. He was very tired indeed.

“I told you. She doesn’t cry now. She likes the woman better. But I don’t. I hate her.”

“You don’t hate me,” said Mrs. Helps, smiling gently, her white hair a cloud around her face. “I’m kind to you. I’m going to give you a nice drink and tell you about Lady Kennelly who lives in a castle…”

Jamie was still sleeping, and no one had come prying at four o’clock, which was the time when Millie, upstairs in the fourth floor flat, began to get restless. If she didn’t leave in the next five minutes she’d never get there in time, and Fred wouldn’t wait, she knew that.

But Mrs. Lacey had been late coming home after going out in a taxi with Mr. Palmer, and then that inquisitive inspector had come back. It looked now as if he meant to stay until it was time for Mrs. Lacey to go on her rendezvous.

In front of him Millie could not ask for permission to go out and meet Fred. There was only one thing to do, and that was to sneak out. She would be back long before Mrs. Lacey had to leave. With luck they wouldn’t even know she had been away.

It was surprising how easy this was to do. The living room door was shut, and she was able to tiptoe down the hall, open the door and slip but, unseen and unheard. On the stairs she began to run.

Downstairs, she was able to slip out of the building unnoticed by any snooping detectives, because luckily a number of people were just leaving one of the ground floor flats, presumably after a late luncheon party, and there was a great deal of talking and merriment. An inconspicuous figure on the edge of the crowd, Millie safely reached High Street and joined the bus line. If she was too late for her appointment, she couldn’t bear it.

It was almost five o’clock when she scrambled off the bus into the mist and gathering dark. This must be the place Fred had meant. There was a footpath from the road into the common. A little way off, behind a clump of bushes, was the seat Fred had told her about. It was empty, and so, apparently, was the common. In the distance, just discernible in the gloom, was the empty football field. Beyond it, a long way off it seemed, there were lighted windows, probably from the pub Fred meant to take her to.

She hoped he would hurry up and come. It was lonely here, and cold. Should she walk across the common to meet him, or should she wait here? On the whole, it was probably safer to wait here, because the fog was growing thicker and darker, and she might miss him.

She sat on the damp seat and shivered. Occasionally drips fell from the dark twisted branches of the tree above her. There was no wind, but it seemed, now and then, as if the bushes rustled.

Dogs, or rabbits, or squirrels, she told herself. Goodness, she wished Fred would hurry. What a place to ask her to meet him! It might be private, but that was all you could say for it.

If Fred got a bit fresh, there wouldn’t be much she could do about it. Well! Millie shrugged with a certain amount of apprehensive pleasure, and succeeded, for a little while in stopping shivering.

Cars and buses made a faint roar in the distance. The bushes behind her rustled again faintly, then suddenly a pigeon burst out and flapped overhead. Millie was as startled as apparently it had been. She gave a small scream, which changed to joy as at last she heard a footstep behind her.

“Fred!” she cried.

Then the words died in her throat. She shrank back, paralyzed with terror, as she recognized the tall, thin form of the blonde woman; her long hair hanging over her face, her fingers reaching for Millie’s throat.