The Lodger (42 page)

‘Crikey, when I'm only little?' said Daisy.

‘You'll soon be able to call 'im dad,' said Meg.

‘That's when Mum marries 'im,' said Lily informatively.

‘I expect it's nice marryin' 'Arry,' said Daisy, and received a little thump on her bottom from the hairbrush. She giggled.

‘You'll feel it next time,' said Maggie, but she was in no mood to be stern. The Lord had been good to her and her girls. They didn't look hungry any more, nor shabby. Only weeks ago she had been almost as far down as a mother could go in providing for her children. The workhouse had loomed. Some mothers sold themselves to avoid that. Wasn't it strange how the worry and hardship of poverty had disappeared in just a few weeks, to turn girls with hungry eyes into girls alive with mischief and giggles? And look at Trary, always the brightest and bravest of them even when things were at their worst, and now brighter than ever. Those eyes of hers always told a story. No wonder Bobby had said only yesterday, ‘I'm done for, I am, Mrs Wilson. I don't mind Trary havin' one eye like hers, but two together, well, is it fair on a bloke? I don't know I'm ever goin' to be able to say no to 'er. What a life for a man like me that's got a kind jam tart. I'll just 'ave to give in to it, I suppose it could be a happy death.'

Luck had changed for the better on a particular day, the day Harry had called for the first time, and Bobby had later arrived with a box of food on his head. Trary would never forget that moment.

Maggie smiled.

‘Penny for 'em, Mum,' said Meg.

‘That Bobby,' said Maggie.

‘I likes Bobby,' said Daisy.

‘He's so funny,' said Maggie.

‘I don't know any boy more daft,' said Trary.

‘Oh, don't you want 'im, Trary, could I marry 'im when I'm grown up?' asked Lily.

‘I'll ask him,' said Trary.

‘Could Lily an' me both marry 'im?' asked Daisy.

‘No, you couldn't,' said Maggie, ‘now up to bed with you.' She ushered her younger girls up to bed.

Harry didn't appear at all. Trary knew her mum was a little disappointed. She was making herself look very nice these days. Trary wondered what had stopped her future step-father from popping in.

The house lay in darkness. It was a little after ten. The night was warm, the night sky heavy, with cloud blanketing the new moon and far-off stars. King and Queen Street awaited the turn-out from the pub in Browning Street. A shadow blotted out the best part of a downstairs window. Fingernails made a fractional insertion into the crack between the lower window frame and the sill. Strong fingers pressed and dragged. The window slid slowly up with the tiniest of creaks. When it was fully open, the man stood listening. He looked left, and then right. He did not hurry. It was thirty seconds before he began to climb in, at which point he heard footsteps. He completed his climb over the sill, straightened up, turned, and without haste he quietly closed the window. He stood in the darkness, waiting and listening. A man passed by the house.

Inside Emma's living-room, his eyes adjusted themselves to its darkness, and Herbert Stephens moved slowly and silently forward. They came at him then, Nicholas, Chapman and Harry. A fourth man, Detective-Sergeant Arnold, applied a struck match to the gas lamp. The room sprang into light. Stephens was a raging bull, his blue eyes no longer mild, but hard, glassy and bulging. Nicholas, Chapman and Harry could scarcely hold him. With a muted roar he broke free, hurled himself across the room and snatched the brass-handled poker from the fireside companion set. He launched himself at Nicholas, the poker flailing murderously. Nicholas, keyed-up, had only a fraction of a second in which to save himself from being brained. His reflexes sent him forward to meet maniacal force, and his head and shoulders ducked low. The poker whistled above him and his head thudded into the man's stomach. There was another muted roar and the bull staggered. Nicholas pitched downwards. Chapman leapt, his head low too, and wound his arms around Stephens' ribs. The poker whirled back for a killing blow. Harry smashed downwards with drawn truncheon and caught the poker in mid-air. Chapman held on, head buried in the man's chest, his shoulders pushing. The wavering poker straightened and was aimed point down at Chapman's bent back. Harry smashed again with his truncheon. Nicholas was up, and Arnold joined the mêlée. The raging bull was smothered, but they could not bring him down, or check his strange muted roars. Harry struck again, and his truncheon took Stephens full in the back of his knees. He fell like a pole-axed gladiator, but he raged about over the floor with the CID men trying to smother him. Furniture crashed. Harry had no option but to smite the bull senseless. It took more than one blow of his truncheon.

Upstairs, Inspector Greaves and Emma were listening. They heard the sounds of the frenzied struggle subside to a momentary silence. Then they heard Nicholas's voice.

‘That's Samson? Thank God I'm not Delilah.'

The Inspector's moustache moved to a twitch of his lips.

‘I'll give him Delilah.'

‘No, no, Inspector, I like to think there's a very nice sense of humour inhabiting Scotland Yard. And thank you for being with me up here, thank you for your company and comfort.'

Emma, of course, was working on behalf of Nicholas.

In Stephens' pockets they found a black silk stocking and a five-inch penknife of the finest Sheffield steel, its long primary blade honed to razor-like sharpness. From Stephens himself they got nothing at all, not a single word, only a vacant stare from blue eyes as mild as a September sky. Manacled, he was taken to Rodney Road police station, and from there to Scotland Yard.

‘Goodnight, Emma, can't thank you enough,' said Nicholas on leaving her house.

‘Goodnight, Nicholas.'

‘You'll be required to make a statement, a long one.'

‘I'll endure that, the worst is over. When am I to make the statement?'

‘I'll call on you.'

‘Call on me. How kind. Goodnight Nicholas.'

‘Take care,' he said automatically, and left.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Much to Emma's embarrassment and disgust, the following day's papers made her the heroine of the hour. Inspector Greaves and Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain of Scotland Yard were quoted as being unstinting in their praise of her. Sergeant Chamberlain, responsible for the arrest, paid her particular tribute, all in respect of the apprehension of an unnamed man who was to help the police with their enquiries. One reporter had found out she was a suffragette, and he had obtained a tribute from Mrs Pankhurst herself.

‘Mrs Emma Carter,' Mrs Pankhurst was quoted as saying, 'is one of our most valiant members. We are proud of her.'

Emma fixed her mind on the perfidy of Nicholas. He was responsible for all this, she was sure. You wait, she said to herself, I'll make your life not worth living.

She was appalled by the sight of reporters outside her front door when she was about to leave for work. She fled them. But Hurlocks provided no respite from embarrassment. Staff and management converged on her from all directions, expressing fulsome admiration.

‘But I didn't do anything, except to identify him as the man who bought stockings from us.'

‘That's not what the papers say, Mrs Carter,' said the managing director, ‘nor what the police say. Well done.'

‘But the man hasn't been charged yet.'

‘I'm sure he will be. Yes, very well done, Mrs Carter.'

Emma could hardly wait to get her own back on Nicholas. She would have the opportunity for that when she made her statement. But his perfidy continued, for it was Detective-Sergeant Arnold who called about this, not Nicholas. For her convenience, would she like to make her statement at Rodney Road police station in the presence of Inspector Greaves on Monday afternoon.

‘Certainly not,' said Emma.

‘Beg your pardon, Mrs Carter?'

‘I said certainly not.'

‘Sorry, Mrs Carter, but – '

‘I was told by Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain that he would take my statement.'

‘Were you?'

Emma thought. She frowned. No, he had not actually told her that, he had simply said he would call on her about it.

‘Where is Sergeant Chamberlain?'

‘He's a bit busy with the suspect.'

‘I see. Very well, Monday afternoon at the police station, then.'

‘Two-thirty, Mrs Carter.'

‘Very well,' said Emma.

Harry received a pat on the back from the police superintendent, which meant that in two months time he would receive his promotion to sergeant. Maggie was utterly happy for him, her affection for him growing each day. Trary, whose affections had been stirred from the beginning, was utterly proud of him. Meg kissed him, while Daisy and Lily were awe-struck. Bobby, meeting him on his beat, stopped him and asked to shake his hand.

‘A man's got to shake 'ands with another man, Mr Bradshaw.'

‘Man to man, is it, Bobby?'

‘A bit more than that,' said Bobby. ‘Well, the way I'm planning things, you're goin' to be me future dad-in-law.'

‘Does Trary know?' smiled Harry.

‘What a girl,' said Bobby. ‘She's playin' Nelson now, she keeps turnin' a blind eye to her destiny. I've told 'er it's no good fightin' it, but you know Trary, Mr Bradshaw, she's goin' to fight it all the way till it 'appens. It's her pride. I've never seen any girl put her nose up in the air more than Trary. You ever seen 'er do that?'

‘Yes, I've seen her, Bobby.'

‘Trouble is, that when she does it she looks prettier than ever. Man to man, Mr Bradshaw, I'm done for. Still, Mrs Wilson agrees with me, it could be a happy death. Well, so long, Mr Bradshaw, glad about yer promotion, an' you've got friends down the market that's pleased for you. Oh, and me dad's goin' straight permanent.'

‘Permanent?' enquired Harry.

‘It'd better be permanent, or it'll be my duty, as his only son, to nail 'is feet to me mum's kitchen floor.'

‘Good luck, Bobby.'

At the Brixton roller-skating rink on Saturday afternoon, Trary and Bobby took a breather to allow Trary to treat her talking boy to tea and a fruit bun.

‘You don't have to do that, Trary, I'm earnin' a bit from me mum, remember, and you're still a girl that's poor.'

‘Mum said – well, she's treatin' us both, she's given me a shilling.' Trary hid the fun of the game by adding solemnly, ‘She says you're a dear boy – '

‘She says what?'

‘Yes, she said “What a dear boy young Bobby is, bless 'is cotton socks, treat him to a nice currant bun.”'

‘I'll have to talk to your mum,' said Bobby, and gave the order to the larky waitress, who did a bit of cheeky give-and -take with him before departing, much to Trary's disdain. Up in the air went her nose. ‘Yes, I'll have to talk to your mum,' repeated Bobby. ‘Something's gone to her head, and it's made her mix me up with some Sunday School kid in a sailor suit. It's probably bein' in love. I know how she feels, I don't know what I'm doin' meself sometimes.'

‘Are you speakin' to me, Bobby Reeves, or that common girl?'

‘Well, you have to say how's yer father to her, Trary, or – '

‘You've said all that before. Oh, I just remembered,' Trary perked up, ‘the wedding's goin' to be the first Saturday of our school holidays.'

‘You sure?' said Bobby.

‘Of course I'm sure.'

‘Well, I'm glad you've let me know,' said Bobby, ‘or I might not 'ave turned up. To be candid – '

‘What?'

‘Yes, to be candid,' said Bobby, ‘I didn't even know we were engaged. I know we've talked about our destiny, but – hold on, you sure we can get married at our ages? And can we afford it?'

‘Well, if you don't take the cake,' said Trary.

‘It's buns,' said the waitress, reappearing with the order, and Trary went aloof while the tea and buns were set out on the table amid a rendering of the
Skaters' Waltz
by the band. ‘Don't get fat,' said the waitress, and winked at Bobby before departing again.

‘Ugh to her,' said Trary.

‘Still, she don't give us stale buns,' said Bobby. ‘Anyway, Trary, about our weddin', are you sure – '

‘Bobby Reeves, you get dafter all the time. And more grinnin'. Don't think I can't see you're grinnin'. Is what you said supposed to be funny?'

‘Gettin' married's not funny, Trary, it's our life's work. But I think we ought to wait a bit, say until I'm – '

‘D'you want me to fill your face with my currant bun?' asked Trary.

‘Don't you want to wait, then?' asked Bobby.

Trary, not for the first time since she'd known him, clapped a hand to her mouth and smothered shrieks. Oh, that boy, look at him, he'll be my death. She cleared her throat, ‘One day, Bobby Reeves, you'll be carted off to a loony bin, you will. Boys your age don't talk to girls my age about gettin' married, you blessed lump. If you must know, I 'appened to be speakin' of my mother and Mr Harry Bradshaw, and of their weddin'. Afterwards, they're goin' to Eastbourne on honeymoon, while I look after Daisy, Lily an' Meg. Then when they come back, we're all movin' to our new house in Herne Hill. My new dad's selling his house in Westmoreland Road, and he and mum are buyin' the new one between them. Mum's ever so pleased about that. Oh, and you're gettin' a special invite to the weddin'. I don't know why, but mum seems to like you.'

‘It's mutual,' said Bobby. ‘What's special about the invite?'

‘Well,' said Trary, consuming her bun, ‘me an' my sisters are goin' to be bridesmaids, and you're goin' to be a pageboy, like they have in posh weddings. Have you got a blue velvet suit with a lace collar and knickerbockers, and can you get your hair curled? Mum wants you to look pretty. Oh, and Daisy an' Lily asked if they could both marry you when they're older, poor things.'