Prized Possessions (42 page)

‘Yes,' said Polly, ‘but got away with nothing.'

Lizzie said, ‘Did O'Hara threaten him?'

‘No, not exactly,' Polly said. ‘After what happened to Tommy Bonnar, though, I was afraid the same thing might happen to Patsy.'

‘How did you stumble on Janet's savings?' Lizzie asked.

Polly hesitated. ‘Pure accident.'

‘Tell her,' Babs said. ‘It's all out now in any case.'

‘I was looking for a place to hide Babs's – our share of the robbery.'

‘Your share?' said Lizzie.

‘My share,' said Babs. ‘She never had a share.'

‘When I discovered money hidden under the boards in Gran's house,' Polly said, ‘I naturally assumed it was Daddy's.'

‘So you just took it?'

‘Yes.'

Lizzie heaved a sigh. ‘Has he gone now, this boy?'

‘I think he's in Paris.'

‘You just wanted rid of him, didn't you, Polly?' Lizzie said.

‘I suppose I did.'

‘Did you give him all Janet's money?' Lizzie asked.

‘I bloody hope not,' said Babs.

‘Half,' Polly said. ‘I put the rest into a bank account.'

‘You didn't tell me that,' said Babs. ‘Where's the bank book?'

‘I've hidden it.'

‘Where?'

Polly gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘Back of the wireless set.'

Rosie giggled. ‘And I thought it was just Victor Sylvester.'

Lizzie said, ‘You'll have to give it back.'

‘Like hell we will,' said Babs, ‘not after what Janet done to us.'

‘Janet didn't do anythin' to us,' said Lizzie.

‘You don't seem very surprised at what Auntie told us,' said Rosie.

‘I'm not. I knew he had someone else,' said Lizzie. ‘I'd a notion it might be Janet but I didn't want to have to face up to the truth.'

‘She's a right cow,' Babs interrupted. ‘Imagine lettin' you pay the Manones for all these years an' never sayin' a word.'

‘How could she?' said Lizzie. ‘She was waitin' for Frank to come back.'

‘Alex O'Hara says somebody else took the Manones' money,' said Rosie.

‘You an' O'Hara seem to have been very bloody chummy,' said Babs.

‘It was a while ago,' said Rosie, ‘when I still thought he liked me.'

‘Well,' Lizzie said, ‘I'm relieved things are out in the open at last.'

‘For all the good it'll do us,' Babs said.

Lizzie put an arm around Rosie, and said, ‘I'm goin' to marry Bernard. He loves me an' I love him. I've been feelin' guilty about goin' off an' leavin' Janet to cope wi' Mother – but I think I've got over it all of a sudden. So that's one problem solved.'

‘One problem?' said Babs. ‘What about us?'

‘Will we go with you,' said Rosie, ‘to Knightswood?'

‘You will,' said Lizzie. ‘Your sisters won't.'

‘Wait a bloody minute,' said Babs. ‘Are you sayin' that Polly an' me are to be kicked out in the street just because you want to marry this guy?'

‘It's not goin' to happen right away,' said Lizzie.

‘I mean, are you punishin' us?' said Babs. ‘Anyhow, why can't we come with you to Knightswood? Bernard wouldn't mind.'

‘No, but his mother would,' said Lizzie. ‘The house isn't big enough for six of us. Besides, I'm sure you wouldn't want to leave your friend.'

‘What friend?' said Babs, frowning.

‘Your friend downstairs,' said Lizzie.

‘Jackie? My God! Jackie's not…' Babs paddled her legs in frustration. ‘You are, you're punishin' us, for God's sake.'

‘I'm not,' said Lizzie. ‘I'm just doing what I want for a change.'

‘And the debt to Dominic Manone?' said Polly.

‘There is no debt,' said Lizzie. ‘Never was a debt.'

‘Dominic doesn't know that,' said Polly.

‘He will,' said Lizzie. ‘He will when you tell him.'

‘Me?'

‘Aye,' Lizzie said. ‘You.'

*   *   *

Early on Thursday afternoon, Miss Fyfe gave her a whisk over with a clothes brush, Mr Feldman issued a few last-minute instructions, wished her the best of luck, and waved her off to her appointment at Shelby's.

Rosie was at an age more selfish than sensitive. Most of the unpleasantness that Aunt Janet had stirred up was almost forgotten in her excitement. She had been looking forward to the great adventure – her first interview for a job – ever since Mr Feldman had arranged it. She had even persuaded Polly to accompany her into Glasgow one evening and lead her to Mandeville Square so that she wouldn't get lost when the day came.

The building had been impressive but the shop's narrow ground-floor windows had revealed little, except some expensive-looking books with tinted plates laid open on a velvet cloth and, at the back, three or four shelves of leather-bound volumes. Rosie had been a mite disappointed. Shelby's was not the jumbled, jam-packed sort of bookshop that she had envisaged and had an air of austere gentility that made it seem just a wee bit stuffy. A job, any sort of job, was not to be sneezed at, however, and come Thursday she put her doubts behind her and rode the tram into Glasgow feeling more alert and nervous than she had ever done before.

As soon as she pushed through the heavy swing door and stepped into the shop, all her doubts vanished and her nervousness was replaced by a kind of awe. Sixteen or not, a Gorbals girl or not, she knew that this was the place for her. It was quiet, so very quiet that she could almost hear the silence; not the muffled silence that she was used to but the sort of silence you could feel on your skin, tranquil, soothing and pleasantly warm, with a faint plushy odour that words couldn't adequately describe – the aroma, the effluvia of books.

Books in profusion, more books than were held by the public libraries in Norfolk Street and Scotland Street put together, more books than carelessly crammed the barrows where Babs took her when she had a spare shilling to spend. Books here were treated as more than commodities and were granted a respect to which Rosie instinctively responded They were stacked on floor-to-ceiling shelves, individualised on wooden stands, housed in stately glass-fronted cases and laid open in display cabinets. There was hardly a soul in the long reach of the shop, as if the books themselves were the inhabitants, the citizens of Shelby's rooms and admitted acolytes only reluctantly and in penny numbers.

One elderly gentleman in an old-fashioned Chesterfield lurked in a corner, head bent as if in prayer, a little volume bound in card open in his hands. One younger gentleman with a shock of curly brown hair down to his collar and a Raglan overcoat flung open leaned gently against a display case, carefully inspecting a huge calf-bound tome that lay open on top of the glass. And, though Rosie failed to notice him, a boy in shirt-sleeves and a canvas apron was perched on a tall ladder so far above her that he was almost lost in the shadows of the ceiling cornice.

It wasn't consideration or a suspicion that she might be hard of hearing that brought the shop-boy down to floor level. He knew better than to raise his voice within the precincts of the bookroom. He had learned the hard way to restrain his natural exuberance and pretend that he was as well mannered if not as well bred as most of Shelby's customers. He nipped swiftly down the ladder and was at Rosie's side almost before she realised it.

‘Yass,' he said in a throaty whisper, then, just in case he had misjudged the age and class of new arrival, added a reluctant, ‘madam?'

Rosie turned to face him. She arched her tongue against the roof of her mouth then, fighting a nervous slur, said, ‘I am here to see Mr Shuh – Shelby.'

‘Which Mr Shelby 'ud that be?' the boy said.

‘Mr Oswald Shuh – Shelby?' said Rosie, uncertainly.

She had no trouble reading the boy's lips but she could not make out the sneering, jumped-up working-class accent that rang as false as a fourpenny bit. She would have felt more comfortable if she had, for she would have known, as Polly would have known, that he was no more socially exalted then she was, just a tad more experienced in patronage.

‘Is it fur work?' the boy said.

He had a thin, gutter-ground face, sallow and severe.

‘I have an appointment,' said Rosie, voice rising; so much so that the elderly gent in the corner turned and peered at her, not disapprovingly but with an air of sympathy. ‘Where is Mr Shelby to be found?'

‘Didn't know he wus lost, darlin',' the boy said, then, spotting higher authority, added hastily, ‘However, if you'll step this way, miss, I'll see if I can … Ah, there you are, Mr Shelby. Young lady here claims she's got an appointment with Mr Oswald.'

‘She has, Gannon,' the higher authority said.

‘I thought he was still in London, sur.'

‘He is. I'll do the honours. Now scuttle along, please.'

‘Sur,' said Gannon, and was gone.

Rosie looked up at the higher authority and felt better immediately.

He was tall but not so tall as to be intimidating. He had a square-ish sort of face, a prominent chin with a cleft in it, dark wavy hair, and sported a pair of heavy tortoiseshell spectacles. Coupled with the fact that he wore no coat, the specs lent him an air of informality. His waistcoat, Rosie noticed, was ink-stained and the cloth, though expensive, had frayed a little round two of the buttonholes. His shirt sleeves were fastened with rolled gold links, however, and she guessed that he must be one of the Shelby clan.

‘Rosalind Conway?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm Robert Shelby. My father sends his apologies. He's been detained elsewhere on business. He's asked me to put you through your paces and report back to him.' He smiled, taking the sting out of it. ‘Can you make me out?'

‘Yes, sir. I can read your lips fine.'

‘Surprising. Everybody tells me I'm a fearful mumbler.'

‘I do not think you are, sir.'

‘Well, that's gratifying.' Looking down at her he seemed momentarily at a loss, then he said, ‘We won't bother with the office. If you come with me, I'll take you directly to the catalogue desks and we'll see how your penmanship shapes up.' His put his hand against her shoulder, very lightly. ‘This way.'

She walked by his side down a carpeted aisle between display cabinets and waist-high bookcases, looking up at him.

He said, ‘I believe you come with Mr Feldman's recommendation.'

‘Mr Feldman is my teacher, sir.'

‘Mr Feldman was my teacher too.'

‘You?' said Rosie. ‘But you are not deaf?'

‘Abe Feldman taught me to play chess.'

‘Oh!'

‘Do you play?'

‘No, Mr Shelby, I am afraid I do not.'

They had reached an alcove towards the rear. It was protected by a carved wood arch but the shop was clearly visible from beneath it. Behind the barrier, however, were two long tables, each top inlaid with fine, pale green leather. Books were piled up on them and on the floor between. On each table were three big brass ink-stands and a rack containing pens, blotting paper, envelopes and other assorted stationery. On one table was a typewriter – an antique Oliver with keys like a spider's legs – an embossing press and a device that Rosie recognised as an automatic numbering machine. Seated at the table was a man of about sixty. He wore a threadbare suit, a rumpled shirt, and had a small moustache the hue and texture of badger's bristle. He glanced up and winked at Rosie through a pair of thick gold-rimmed spectacles.

‘Mr Briggs, our researcher and cataloguer,' Robert Shelby told her. ‘If we do decide to employ you, Rosalind, it's Mr Briggs who will train you. What do you think of that, Albert? Can you cope with a female apprentice?'

‘Male, female; can't hardly tell the difference these days,' Mr Briggs said. ‘Are you the deaf lassie?'

‘Hard of hearing,' Rosie answered.

‘Huh!' Mr Briggs said. ‘One deafie, an' one half blind. What a pair that'll be, eh, Mr Robert? Hardly worth more than one wage between us?'

‘I wouldn't tell my father that,' Robert Shelby said. ‘You might give him ideas.' He opened a drawer in the base of the table, took out a sheaf of lined foolscap paper, placed it on the table, drew out a chair. ‘Now, Rosalind, I'm going to ask you to copy a piece from a book, a rather odd book written in Latin several hundred years ago. It's called
Novum Organum,
by a chap named Francis Bacon.' He reached to the pile by the table, plucked out a book. ‘It's not a first edition, of course, but it's early. Bound in vellum, this funny waxy sort of stuff. Put one of our ebony rulers across the pages to hold them down and copy the whole of the page with the tape marker in it. Can you can do that?'

‘Yes.'

‘Perhaps I should relieve you of your coat and hat?'

‘Please,' said Rosie.

She slipped out of her overcoat and gave it, her hat and scarf to Mr Shelby. She was already studying the book's wrinkled pages and unfamiliar type. She understood the nature of the test: her ability to make an exact copy of a page written in a language she didn't comprehend. It was a good test, fair if difficult and indicated something of what would be expected of her if she got the job. She seated herself, selected a pen, opened one of the ink-wells. The pen-nib was brand-new, steel with a fine point. She licked it to make the ink stick.

‘I think, Mr Briggs, we should let the young lady get on with it.'

‘Aye, I think you're right, sir,' Albert Briggs said, then leaned over, put his moustache almost against Rosie's ear and in a soft, tobacco-smelling breath, added, ‘Dot your
tees
an' cross your
eyes,
lass, an' you'll do fine.'

Rosie hardly heard him; she had already begun to write.