Sons and Daughters (27 page)

‘Yes, we don’t hardly ever see her,’ said Phoebe.

‘We saw her when she was home with Aunt Vi and Uncle Tommy for two weeks in July,’ said Jimmy.

‘Crumbs, that’s not much,’ said Phoebe.

‘Well, I’m keeping my fingers crossed for her and Fergus, and for Jeremy,’ said Susie.

‘I hope Jeremy’s plane knows where it’s going,’ said Sammy, ‘and that it don’t land him in Dodge City.’

The BOAC post-war airliner, carrying Jeremy among its passengers, was just taking off for New York, an all-night flight.

The Parson was driving an old jalopy. It could play up a bit, but was on its best behaviour as he motored across the junction at Camberwell Green and parked outside the pub opposite the Adams shop and offices. The time was just after five.

He was wearing a cap with a large soft peak. Beside him on the passenger seat was a square
cardboard box. The pub wasn’t yet open for evening business, and there were few pedestrians on this side of Denmark Hill. On his right he could expect the occasional passing bus or tram, that was all. He lifted the lid of the box and took a loving peek at Little Blaster, a sleek modern version of a crossbow, conveniently compact in its size and deadly in the velocity of its bolt.

He watched. He saw the parked cars of the brothers. The van was absent from its spot, giving him a clear view of the shop, to the left of which was the door leading to the stairs up to the offices. Well, even if the van did show up, it blocked only the lower view of the shop window. He took the crossbow out of its box, placed it on his lap and gave it a caress. It was already loaded, the bolt in place.

He was neither nervous nor sweating. He was a professional, with a job to do for a lovely hundred smackers. He waited and watched.

At five thirty, he was very much on the alert, the crossbow in his hands but hidden by the door. The window was wound down. A bus passed, completely blocking his view for a few seconds. The door to the office stairs opened the moment the bus passed, spilling the usual office workers, most of whom were girls. There were a couple of blokes who looked like pale-faced book-keepers, and following on, a lush-looking matronly woman. The Parson had seen them all during his watching briefs.

A minute or so elapsed, and then out came the two brothers, clear in the evening sunlight. The
Parson lifted his crippling weapon, drew the bow back to his full extent, fixed it, and sighted on the two men. There they were, side by side, talking as usual.

He sighted on Sammy’s right knee, and silently swore as the van arrived, hiding the target for a moment before edging into its place. Committed, he confirmed his sighting and fired. His trigger action coincided with the unexpected. The van backed. Its driver, ex-Corporal Mitchell of the West Kents, an NCO in Boots’s platoon at the first Battle of the Somme, exploded verbally as something tore into the offside of his vehicle, blasted through it, and buried itself low down in the nearside.

‘What the bloody hell and gorblimey Amy . . .?’ He turned, saw a ragged gaping hole in one side of the van, and a wicked-looking steel bolt quivering where it had jammed itself in the other side. ‘Blind me, who done that?’

Boots and Sammy were at his driving window, rapping on it. He wound it down.

‘Mitch, you all right?’ said Sammy.

‘Me van ain’t, it’s been hit by a bleedin’ lump of iron,’ bawled Mitch. Pedestrians were coming up and gaping.

Boots took a quick look at the embedded bolt, then turned. Across the road was a dirty old Morris, and the driver was trying to start the engine. The engine, however, was having none of it. It was coughing and stuttering on a contrary note of refusal. The capped driver kept trying. Boots saw him shoot a quick glance at the injured van. The
engine fired then, and he was away. For once, however, the Parson was careless, due to the galling realization that he’d been thwarted by an idiot van driver. Boots saw the car angle out from the kerbside into the path of an oncoming bus. The full weight of the nearside front wheel of the bus crashed into the side of the car. Savaged metal shrieked and the crippled car turned over. The bus pulled up, and a couple of pedestrians some way back stood paralysed and gaping. Boots shot across the road at speed, Sammy following. They were the first to reach the car, lying on its side. Its driver, tipped from his seat, was a crumpled and unconscious heap. Jammed against the passenger door by his hips was a steel crossbow, plainly visible. Boots wrenched at the offside door. It refused to budge.

The shocked bus driver, down from his vehicle, said, ‘I swear I had no chance of not hitting him.’

‘Any of your passengers would confirm that,’ said Boots, relieved that there had been no explosion, although he could detect the smell of leaking petrol. Mitch had joined him and Sammy, and a crowd was gathering, but staying well clear in case the leaking petrol ignited. Despite that risk, men were offering to help right the car and get the unconscious man out. The bus driver said best not to do that, in case it shook up the poor bloke and made any broken bones worse. Nor could anyone be certain that both doors weren’t jammed.

‘If you see what I mean,’ he said to Boots.

‘Knock the pub landlord up, Sammy, and use his
phone to call an ambulance,’ said Boots. The pub door opened at that point, and out came the landlord to investigate. He returned to his pub only moments later to use his phone. From the direction of Camberwell Green, two policemen were hurrying.

An ambulance from nearby King’s College Hospital arrived in quick time, and a fire engine also turned up, its crew speedily doing all that was necessary to eliminate the risk of fire, and to right the car and prise open the doors. The ambulance crew effected careful removal of the driver and stretchered him.

The Parson, now semi-conscious, was carried off to the hospital. The police, curious, took charge of the crossbow.

‘Do we say anything about what happened to the van, Boots?’ asked Sammy.

‘Not here,’ said Boots, and they crossed the road, where Mitch, having returned to the van, had his head inside it and was examining the ragged hole on one side and the embedded bolt on the other.

‘You reporting this?’ he asked Boots.

‘Take it home, Mitch, remove that bolt and bring the van back here tomorrow morning,’ said Boots.

Mitch didn’t argue. He had a long-standing respect for Boots, his one-time sergeant.

Boots, walking with Sammy to their cars, said, ‘You realize, do you, that if the van hadn’t been in the way, the crossbow bolt would have hit one of us?’

‘I ain’t exactly short of savvy, y’know,’ said Sammy.

‘Granted,’ said Boots, standing beside his car with Sammy. ‘So who was that character, and what’s he got against us?’

‘I’m working on it mindfully,’ said Sammy.

‘So am I,’ said Boots. He smiled. ‘I’m mindfully buzzing.’

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asked Sammy.

‘I’m thinking we know only one son of a gun who wishes we hadn’t been born,’ said Boots.

‘The Fat Man?’ said Sammy.

‘He’s taken a few knocks from us lately,’ said Boots.

‘If he hired that geezer to blow holes in us, he still hasn’t learned his lesson,’ said Sammy.

‘If you consider the angle of his aim, that bolt would have smashed into your legs or mine,’ said Boots.

‘I got to be grateful it wasn’t one of our heads?’ said Sammy.

‘We’ll pay a visit to the patient in a day or two,’ said Boots.

‘And take him a bunch of flowers and a bag of grapes?’ said Sammy.

‘We’ll ask him a few questions,’ said Boots.

‘Now you’re talking, me old soldier,’ said Sammy. ‘How about if we borrowed an old-fashioned rack from the Tower of London? Could we smuggle it in?’

‘It’s doubtful,’ said Boots.

‘Susie’s not going to like this new bit of skullduggery,’ said Sammy.

‘Don’t tell her,’ said Boots.

‘You’re not going to tell Polly?’ said Sammy.

‘Perhaps,’ said Boots. ‘Say sometime next year.’

‘Hello, what’ve we got here?’ asked Paul the following morning. Lulu had just arrived in her beret, a white blouse and a dark brown skirt. The skirt was actually short, its hemline only two inches below her knees.

‘You’ve got something to say?’ said Lulu, removing her beret, her spectacles giving him a suspicious look between the hanging curtains of her black hair.

‘Not half,’ said Paul. ‘It’s the first time ever.’

‘Go on, kill me, then, the first time ever for what?’

‘For seeing your legs,’ said Paul.

‘That’s an event, is it?’ said Lulu.

‘It’s sensational,’ said Paul.

‘I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,’ remarked Lulu. ‘You’re pathetic.’

‘I wish I knew why you’ve been hiding legs like yours,’ said Paul. ‘They’d win prizes.’

‘God help the starving workers,’ said Lulu. ‘That’s if you’re going to make a silly song and dance about my skirt.’

‘Nothing to do with starving workers,’ said Paul, opening the morning’s mail. ‘They’re not starving, in any case, Prime Minister Attlee, Aneurin Bevan, Herbert Morrison and MPs like your own father have got the Welfare State looking after them. We’ll mention that in our next propaganda leaflet. The current one’s at the printers, and should be here in a couple of days. Um, where was I?’

‘Oh, just in the middle of one of your barmy dialogues about my person,’ said Lulu, seating herself at her desk. Conscious of the kneehole, she treated the hem of her skirt to several tugs to make sure it covered as much as possible.

‘I’m not looking,’ said Paul.

‘Be your age,’ said Lulu. ‘What do I care if you’re looking or not?’ That remark relegated her skirt-tugging to the inconsequential. ‘You flatter yourself.’

‘There’s a letter here from the headmaster of the grammar school in Camberwell,’ said Paul. ‘He wants to know if we can send a couple of Young Socialists, good speakers, to take part in a debate, Socialism is Beneficial to the Country.’

‘Grammar schools ought to be abolished,’ said Lulu. ‘They turn out middle-class snobs.’

‘I’m one of them,’ said Paul. ‘And so’s George Brown, a cabinet minister. Here, hold on, lovey, you went to a grammar school yourself. It says so on your file.’

‘I didn’t go.’ Lulu was huffy. ‘I was sent. By my mother. One is helpless at the age of eleven. But I fought being turned into a snob.’

‘Made a belligerent of you instead,’ said Paul.

‘Well, good,’ said Lulu, cleaning out the clogged ribbon ink from her typewriter’s letter faces. ‘It’ll help me knock spots off the opposition. Get me elected eventually. You can put me down for that debate. As a supporter of the motion. I’ll show ’em.’

‘The boys will like that,’ said Paul.

‘Not if they’re toffee-nosed young Tories,’ said Lulu.

‘Oh, I get you, yes,’ said Paul. ‘I thought you meant you’d wear a short skirt.’

‘I don’t know why I stay in this job,’ said Lulu. ‘You kill me ten times a day.’

She had another sickening time later on that day, when Henrietta Trevalyan reappeared mid-afternoon. She was gushingly profuse about interrupting Paul, but said she was desperate to know if he’d made up his mind about joining forces with her in establishing a home for lonely old maids. Paul said it was a pleasure to see her, and begged her to accept his most profound apologies for not having come to a decision yet. (Lulu ground her teeth.) The cause was a noble one, said Paul, worthy of very serious thought, and his admiration for Henrietta as its guiding light was total. He said. (Lulu gagged.) Henrietta said she dearly hoped his admiration would lead him to her side in the venture. (Yes, thought Lulu, come into my parlour, said the spider.)

Paul said he’d still like to give it more thought.
Meanwhile, would Henrietta like to stay for a cup of tea? Henrietta would. Paul said Lulu was just going to make a pot. Nothing of the kind, said Lulu, it’s your turn. OK, I’ll make it, said Paul, and went to the kitchen. Henrietta went with him.

When they returned, with the tray, the pot, three cups and enough biscuits for three, Lulu was sure Henrietta looked as if she’d been kissed. Or was it the other way about? Either way, Lulu felt it was time to throw up.

She went home to her flat in a bitter mood, and would have kicked the cat if she’d had one.

‘Tommy, Dad’s getting poorly,’ said Vi, when her husband arrived home that evening. Her dad, known to all the Adams generations as good old Uncle Tom, was seventy-six. A sufferer from bronchitis, he was failing in health and presently confined by doctor’s orders to his bed. His wife, Aunt Victoria, was frankly worried about him.

‘Don’t worry, Vi, he’ll pull through,’ said Tommy.

‘You bet he will,’ said Paul with a young man’s cheerful conviction.

‘He looked ever so pale and drawn when I was with him this afternoon,’ said Vi.

‘If it was serious, they’d have him in hospital,’ said Tommy. ‘He’s not running a temperature, is he?’

‘It’s a bit high,’ said Vi, ‘but he’s not feverish, and he says he’ll be up in a day or so to pick some runner beans and some of his first leeks.’

‘Good sign, that,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ll pop round and have a chat with him myself this evening.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Paul.

‘Yes, buck him up with a talk on the Labour Party,’ said Tommy.

‘He votes Liberal,’ said Vi.

‘I know,’ said Tommy, ‘so a talk about the Labour Party will get him up and fighting.’

‘Anything to help,’ said Paul.

‘That won’t be any help,’ said Vi, ‘so don’t try it, my lad.’

Uncle Tom was very happy to see his son-in-law and grandson, and Aunt Victoria was touched. She was all for Uncle Tom being cheered up. It was as good as medicine, she said. And certainly, Uncle Tom did buck up, without having to listen to any talk on the achievements of the Labour Party.

The following morning, Lulu turned up in a sweater and trousers. Paul raised tub-thumping objections.

‘Off with ’em,’ he said, after denouncing them as a garment for horsy Tory women.

‘Do what?’ said Lulu.

‘Off with ’em.’

‘Oh, yes? Keen to see my knickers, are you?’

‘Go home, take ’em off, and come back wearing a skirt.’