God Save the Queen! (17 page)

“I wonder you had any room for clothes,” said Vivian.

“Well, you can see what I did bring got horribly crushed.” Flora looked ruefully down at the damson-colored ankle-length dress which, along with the clunky shoes on her feet, had been another of her flea market finds. “I suppose I should have taken an iron to this, but I didn’t want to keep you waiting when ... when it was time to say good-bye and thank you for everything you’ve done, Mr. Gossinger, to see me settled into my new home.”

“I’m sorry,” Vivian stood up and nudged the stool under the sink, “but that wasn’t the plan. I don’t want to come off sounding abominably stuffy, Flora, but I think you may have had a little too much orange juice last night. Otherwise you would remember you promised to let me show you the flea market where I’ve been working these last few weeks.”

“But ...” Flora could have kicked herself for ranting on about her treasure hunts among the stalls, and at the same time she could not prevent a little spurt of pure happiness.

Vivian feigned disheartenment. “I expect you don’t take my efforts to make something of myself seriously. You see me as just another member of the wastrel set, a chip off my forebear Sir Rowland’s block, just playacting at making a living.”

“That’s not it!” replied Flora with surprising fierceness.

“Then you’re worried about what your grandfather would say if he were here about your spending the day with me.”

“Well ...” There was that and the fact it was impossible not to wonder how many minutes, let alone
seconds, there were in a day and how they could be stretched like a rainbow across the sky.

“And that’s rubbish,” Vivian told her, “because Hutchins was the most sensible of men and as such would have understood that I need to talk to you about matters that affect the reputation of the Gossinger Family.”

“What do you mean?” Flora was startled into taking the two steps necessary to reach him. Without realizing what she did, she stretched out a hand to straighten his jacket collar. And by the time she got round to blushing it was too late because there was so much else to think about.

“That boy, Edna Smith’s grandson Boris ...” said Vivian.

“What about him?”

“It’s clear, isn’t it, that he’s not been his usual self since that school trip to Gossinger.”

“Meaning?”

“That,” Vivian took hold of Flora’s hand without either of them appearing to notice, “perhaps Boris saw or heard something that afternoon which has left him wondering about your grandfather’s death and whether he might have done something to prevent it. We’ll talk about all of this later out in the fresh air,” Vivian said in a soothing voice while propelling her through the opening into the shop.

“No, I think we should discuss it now.”

“Absolutely not. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“That’s only because it’s awfully stuffy in here.” Flora wriggled away from him. “The windows won’t have been opened since the last people left.”

“No wonder I’m seeing spots in front of my eyes,” Vivian was saying as they crossed the bare shop, then the jingle-jangle of the bell sounded and someone pushed the door open from the outside. “Stupid of me!” He grimaced. “I forgot to lock it when I came back in.”

“Hello there! I bring greetings to our new neighbor!” The person standing at the threshold beaming at them was a middle-size man with the sort of tan that you don’t get in England unless you were born with it courtesy of the genes that come from warmer climes. “I am Banda Singhh, very pleased to meet you, from down the road. Fish-and-chip shop, you know! Best in this neck of the woods. You must come and try some, on the house.”

“That would be lovely.” Flora hurried to shake Mr. Singhh’s outstretched hand, suddenly feeling that the world was a lot less scary. “And it was so kind of you to come round.”

“Yes, it was.” Vivian took his turn pumping Mr. Singhh’s hand while introducing himself and Flora, who had forgotten to do so.

“My wife, she would have come but she is cleaning out the chip baskets and shooshed me out the door. But I am to say you will like it here on Wishbone Street.” Mr. Singhh’s smile stretched even wider. “We came here straight from Pakistan and like it very much. Lots of very pleasant people, like one big happy family if you don’t count Mr. Grundy who is not the sort to do more than pass the time of day. Poor fellow,” Mr. Singhh now looked sad, “he has a bad back and a daughter who looks down her nose at him because he sells naughty underwear in his shop. A man has to earn his living, is what I tell him and now I must return to the grindstone before I find myself out of a job. My wife, Emel, she does not stand for too much slacking. You understand?”

“Absolutely,” agreed Vivian while Flora nodded.

“But remember,” Mr. Singhh was heading cheerfully out the door with a sideways wave of the hand, “do not hesitate to ask if there is anything Emel and I can do to be of assistance. Big or small, it is yours for the asking.”

“What a nice man,” said Flora as his footsteps retreated.

“With a prize of a wife by the sound of it,” replied Vivian, picturing the woman up to her elbows in greasy water scrubbing out the chip pans.

“I think he got the impression we are both living here,” Flora was saying when the door jangled open again and Mr. Singhh popped his head back inside.

“Sorry to make a nuisance of myself,” his smile was still out in full force, “but Emel would hit me over the head with a bottle of our finest malt vinegar if I returned without asking what sort of shop you will be setting up to do our happy neighborhood proud.”

“I’m not renting the shop.” Flora couldn’t help but sound apologetic. “Just the flat upstairs. The building belongs to Mr. Gossinger’s aunt.”

“She was formerly Mabel Bowser,” Vivian informed Mr. Singhh, “who grew up here with her sister Edna—now a Mrs. Smith—when their parents had the premises.”

“Yes, I know all about that!” The other gentleman looked as pleased as if he had been appointed Lord Mayor of London. “Emel, she is acquainted with this Mrs. Smith, a lady’s hairdresser, quite good I believe. They worked together on the church bazaar
last week. We don’t go to the church—Methodist, I think it is—but we like to be friendly, you understand. All of us hoping to go to the same place, isn’t that right? But not too soon, please!” Mr. Singhh put his hands together and looked so soulful Flora had to laugh.

“Think about reopening the shop,” he told her, “and you, sir,” inclining his head toward Vivian, “talk if you please to your aunt, tell her Wishbone Street does not look its best with one of its teeth blacked out. And now I will go away, before you get cross and tell me never to come back wasting your time.”

“Wait a minute, please.” Flora followed Mr. Singhh
out into the street. “I want you to know you could never be a nuisance, and there’s something else ...” she raised her voice as a bus rumbled past. “Would you happen to know what the shop was called when Mr. and Mrs. Bowser had it?”

“Ah, there’s a question better suited I think to my son, who turned himself into an historian and went to work at the British Museum. A father must have his little boast, you understand?” Mr. Singhh nodded his head over his steepled fingers as a mother with a couple of toddlers in tow brushed past him on their way down the street.

“It was a secondhand shop in those days,” prompted Flora.

“You forgive the slowness of my brain! It was before my time, you see. And businesses change hands as often as our friend Mrs. Smith gives haircuts.” Mr. Singhh now pressed his fingers to his forehead and clicked his teeth together. “Ah, yes, it comes back to me, I think. It was called ‘The Silver Teapot.’ “

Flora was tempted to kiss him, but was afraid that might be against his religion—which, as it happened, was Church of England.

After watching him make his way down the street, she went back inside to find Vivian checking the bolts on the door.

“I expect you’re wondering why I didn’t ask Edna Smith about all that last night,” she said. “But I didn’t think about it at the time. It’s true I will be having tea with her tomorrow, but suddenly it seemed important to know now. Because when you grow up in a house with a name, you get to think of places in a very personal sort of way. And it seemed—well, almost rude to keep thinking of my new home as a set of street numbers.”

“But the shop has probably changed names several times since the Bowsers were here. What makes you
think,” Vivian stopped fiddling with the bolts to smile at her, “that it still wants to be called The Silver Teapot?”

“I don’t know.” Flora looked around at the empty walls as if seeing something written on them in a fairy hand. “Except that it seems strange in an enchanted sort of way that it should have had that name when your Aunt Mabel was here as a girl, and she should have afterward come to Gossinger where silver has played such an important role from the days of Sir Rowland right down to the present day.”

Turning to find Vivian looking at her in a very thoughtful manner, she added, “I mean that the Gossinger collection is still talked about as a talisman against evil days. And it works, you have to admit that. People pay money to view the house in good part because they want to see the silver, which is why ...” her voice dwindled to a thread, “Grandpa was always so particular about its cleaning and why he made up his own polish. Oh, I am being ridiculous! Rattling on to you about your own ... or what will be your own home one day.”

“That sort of talk has an aging effect on me, and it’s not even noon,” Vivian said somewhat curtly. “Let’s get out of here, before something or someone else happens to stop us. Fortune smiles.” He closed the door firmly behind as they stepped onto the pavement. “It’s warm enough that you don’t need a coat at the moment and if the temperature drops you can borrow my jacket. No need to worry about wear and tear, it’s paid for.”

“What I am worried about,” Flora stalled two feet behind him, “is that I didn’t bring the key.”

“It’s right here.” Vivian patted his pocket.

“And I left my handbag upstairs.  .  .  .”

“Then you’ll have to forget about powdering your nose.”

“That’s not the problem.” Flora zigzagged
around a group of people in order to catch up with Vivian. “I
don’t have any money for buses and I have no idea how far we are going.”

“We are going to there and back to see how far it is,” he said breezily, tucking her arm inside his as they passed a shopkeeper adjusting the awning above his entryway. “In other words, you and I, Flora Hutchins, are going to fritter away the day seeing the sights.”

“But I thought we were going to your flea market.”

“So we will, but we’ll take the scenic route. Don’t you want to see Westminster and Buckingham Palace?”

“I don’t want you to get the sack.”

“My boss is the understanding sort.” Vivian smoothed down his hair, which kept getting blown about in the breeze. “Expects me when he sees me, that sort of attitude. Come on, he—or she—who hesitates is lost.”

They were at a traffic light, which was green until they stepped off the curb; Flora felt a rush of exhilaration as they darted to the other side. Not only Vivian, but life itself was tugging at her, and she decided that this wasn’t the moment to look back over her shoulder. She would allow herself the next few hours to not think about anything very much. Grandpa would think that wise. He wouldn’t want me nursing my unhappiness every minute of the day, she thought, or feeling guilty for noticing that the sun is shining. And surely he would understand about Mr. Gossinger.

“You have to stop calling me that,” Vivian said when they were sitting on the tube. “It makes me feel a hundred and five, besides which, it makes absolutely no sense after spending the night together.”

“Would you please lower your voice.” Flora spoke out of the corner of her mouth, very much aware that the woman on the other side of her was all ears. “Anyway, I couldn’t possibly.”

“Call me by my first name?” Now the man on the
other side of Vivian was listening under cover of his newspaper.

“Exactly.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because—”

“Because you’ve got some silly idea that we come from different walks of life?”

“That wouldn’t matter, at least not so much if Grandpa and I hadn’t worked for your family.” Flora got up and shook out the creases in her long skirt as the train got close to Oxford Circus. “And anyway, there’s the other complication.” She followed Vivian down the aisle.

“Which is?”

“That it would be like,” Flora said as the doors opened and she skipped out onto the platform, “like calling Prince Charming Charlie.”

“I didn’t catch that.” Vivian joined her after letting an elderly woman precede him off the train.

“Good! I mean, it doesn’t matter.” She really had to stop this giddy behavior before she made a complete idiot of herself. It was no excuse to claim that her world had been turned upside down and inside out. She had a lot to be thankful for: a place to live, the promise of friendly neighbors and even the hope of seeing dear Mrs. Bellows again, because looking at the stations listed on the chart inside the train she discovered that Ilford, where the old housekeeper now lived, was really very close.

“All right,” Flora said as she and Vivian headed for the escalators, “I’ll stop calling you Mr. Gossinger, if that’s what you really want. But you have to promise—”

“Not to tell Aunt Mabel and Uncle Henry?”

“No, that you won’t feel you have to keep me under your wing after today.”

“You think you can take care of yourself, do you?”

Vivian glanced back over his shoulder at the press of people behind them as they rode the escalator up the exit. “Let me warn you,” he now put his hands on her shoulders and spoke into her ear, “life has a way of getting complicated in London; not so long ago I was in the area of the palace, just minding my own business, and found myself in the thick of an antiroyalist rally. Thank God my picture didn’t end up in the papers or Uncle Henry, avid monarchist that he is, would have ordered me never to darken his doors again.”