THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Sammy’s mother entered his office. She was known to her family as Chinese Lady on account of her almond eyes and the fact that she had once taken in washing. She was in her fiftieth year, a slim woman of upright carriage and firm bosom. As she had once said to Boots, she didn’t believe in letting anything become unfirm. Not that she’d been referring to her bosom. Never would she have mentioned it to any of her sons. She regarded bosoms as unmentionable, in fact. No, she’d been talking about women who let themselves go. Go where? asked Boots. Chinese Lady simply gave him a look. She’d been giving her eldest son those kind of looks ever since his schooldays, when he’d learned to use his tongue in a way she found highly suspicious.
She appeared in Sammy’s office wearing a brown velvet toque hat and a beige-coloured raincoat. She looked sprightly. Boots was there as well as Sammy.
‘Hello, who’s this lady?’ asked Sammy. ‘Hold on, is that you, Ma?’
‘I don’t know how many times I’ve told you not to call me Ma,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘I don’t mind any of us bein’ poor, but I didn’t bring any of you up to be common.’
‘Who’s poor?’ asked Boots.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Chinese Lady, who always stuck to her guns however much her sons tried to confuse her. ‘I don’t want people tellin’ me that Sammy’s grown up common, specially now he’s in business. Mind, it’s not the sort of business I’d of expected of any of you, ladies’ clothes and things I won’t mention. I can’t bring meself to even look in that shop window of yours downstairs. When I think of you, Boots, lettin’ my youngest put things like that in the windows of all ’is shops, I wonder you sometimes don’t feel uncomf’table.’
‘I suppose I’m blasé about it,’ said Boots.
‘Don’t you use them French words of yours to me,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘you know I don’t hold with them, nor with them fast French females you learned them from durin’ the war. Still, you come out of the war without gettin’ your head blown off, so I won’t go on at you about lettin’ Sammy get a bit unrespectable in his business. I just hope he won’t end up leadin’ his whole fam’ly astray. Lizzy was only sayin’ the other day that it’s embarrassin’ havin’ all her brothers workin’ in ladies’ unmentionables.’
‘I work in a suit myself,’ said Boots.
‘I do too,’ said Sammy, ‘you got my word for it, me old love.’
‘Don’t be familiar,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘you know what I mean. It’s just not decent, designing things for female persons.’ She was on her favourite hobby-horse, and Boots and Sammy knew it. ‘I don’t mind frocks and skirts and suchlike, but things, well, I can’t hardly bear thinking about it.’
‘I suppose I’m blasé about it myself,’ repeated Boots. ‘Well, I was taken into ladies’ underwear by Emily at an early age. In Gamages.’
‘I don’t know how you can talk so disreputable,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘and usin’ vulgar French words again as well.’
‘You’re a good old girl,’ said Boots.
‘And might I point out we don’t design ladies’ unmentionables ourselves?’ said Sammy. ‘We acquire them from manufacturers.’
‘Kindly don’t argue,’ said Chinese Lady firmly, ‘I don’t like any of my children to be argufyin’.’
‘Children? Who said that?’ asked Sammy of the pile of work on his desk. He knew it was no good telling Chinese Lady he was up to his ears. ‘Anyway, Ma, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit and your omelette?’
‘Omelette?’ said Chinese Lady. ‘What omelette?’
‘I think he means homily,’ said Boots.
‘And what’s that, might I ask? Another French word? If you must know why I’m here, I just happened to be passing.’
‘Passing, yes, I see,’ said Boots.
‘Yes, I thought I’d better pop in and see what you’re gettin’ up to,’ said Chinese Lady, who made a habit of that. She was, of course, proud of her sons’ accomplishments, but was never going to encourage them to get above themselves. She was always saying to her daughter Lizzy that they were good boys really, except that Sammy didn’t go to church as often as he ought to. Lizzy was of the opinion that Sammy was a live wire who’d only go to church regularly if he could sell the vicar a new organ, that Boots was a danger to well-behaved housewives and Tommy as honest as the day was long.
‘Well, we won’t keep you, Ma,’ said Sammy, who’d been talking to Boots about the murder investigation. It seemed from today’s papers that old man Collier and his son had been cleared.
‘Also,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘I happen to be meetin’ Rosie here from her school. I’m buyin’ her a special little something for always helpin’ me to wind me knittin’ wool. Where’s Susie?’
‘I think she’s workin’,’ said Sammy, ‘it’s what she’s here for.’
That went over Chinese Lady’s head.
‘Perhaps I’ll have a cup of tea with her in her office while I’m waitin’,’ she said.
‘What’s she sayin’ now, Boots?’ asked Sammy helplessly.
‘She wants you to put the office kettle on,’ said Boots, as Chinese Lady advanced on Susie’s office door. At the door she turned, frowning.
‘I’ve just remembered,’ she said, ‘I’ve been readin’ about a murder done in a Bermondsey scrap metal yard. Boots, I hope it wasn’t an Adams yard.’
‘Well, old lady,’ said Boots at his most reassuring, ‘you can take it from me that we didn’t own any yard in Bermondsey until a couple of weeks ago.’
‘I don’t know I hold with you and Sammy bein’ in the scrap metal business at all,’ she said soberly. ‘There’s a lot of shifty people in that sort of trade. It’s no wonder there’s been a murder.’
‘Now don’t give our yards a bad name, Ma,’ said Sammy, ‘we don’t go in for anything shifty.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘That poor girl,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Still, I won’t keep on at you about your business, I don’t believe in bein’ interferin’, and I’m sure you both do your best. There’s some mothers that have got worse sons, a lot worse. You’re good boys most of the time. Well, I’ll see Susie now.’ She knocked.
‘Come in,’ called Susie, and Chinese Lady entered. Boots and Sammy heard Susie exclaim. ‘Oh, what a nice surprise, Mrs Finch.’ Finch was the name of Chinese Lady’s second husband, presently abroad on Government business.
Sammy grinned. Boots smiled. Chinese Lady would get her cup of tea. Susie thought the world of her future mother-in-law.
‘What a character,’ said Sammy.
‘Yes, not too many like her,’ said Boots, ‘she keeps putting us in ladies’ unmentionables.’
Twenty minutes later an open sports car pulled up outside the shop. In it were Rosie, Boots’s adopted daughter, and Rosie’s favourite teacher, Miss Polly Simms. Rosie, nearly eleven, was fair-haired, blue-eyed and enchantingly vivacious. Polly, an ex-ambulance driver of the Great War, was twenty-nine, her rich chestnut hair styled in a Colleen Moore bob, her vivid good looks accentuated by her large and expressive grey eyes. Her sense of humour was irrepressible, although there was often a brittle note to it, a legacy of her years among the men of France and Flanders. She regarded all surviving Tommies as old comrades. Her special regard for Boots, a survivor himself, was of an incurable kind, and it caused her a great deal of heart-burning.
‘I expect Daddy’s got his nose to the grindstone,’ said Rosie. She never thought about Boots as her adoptive father, simply as her one and only daddy. No-one, except perhaps Polly, quite knew just how much Rosie loved him.
‘Frightful, if he finishes up with no nose,’ said Polly.
‘Oh, he’d just say that that would save him having to blow it when he got a cold,’ said Rosie, and a little giggle arrived.
‘Yes, he would say that, wouldn’t he?’ smiled Polly, a cloche hat cuddling her head.
‘Nana says he’s airy-fairy.’
‘Is airy-fairy good or bad?’ asked Polly.
‘Well,’ said Rosie, ‘Nana’s always saying it wouldn’t have happened if she’d boxed his ears more often when he was younger.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard her talking to him,’ said Polly. She spent most Tuesday and Thursday evenings at the house which Boots and his family shared with his mother and stepfather. She was coaching and cramming Rosie for a scholarship exam next January.
‘I’d better go up and meet Nana now,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ll say hello to Daddy first.’
‘Yes, do him a favour, lift his nose off the grindstone for a few minutes,’ said Polly.
‘Whose nose?’ asked Boots, and they looked up. There he was standing beside the car, a smile lurking.
‘Oh, hello, Daddy, where did you spring from?’ asked Rosie.
‘I saw the pair of you from my window,’ said Boots.
‘You actually left your grindstone to come down and say hello?’ asked Polly.
‘What a blessing,’ said Rosie. ‘We don’t want you to wear your nose away, Daddy.’
‘Well, if I do I’ll have a wooden one fixed,’ said Boots, ‘and the grindstone can have a go at that.’
Rosie laughed.
‘We thought you’d say something like that, didn’t we, Miss Simms?’ said Rosie. ‘Is Nana up there, Daddy?’
‘Yes, she’s waiting for you in Susie’s office,’ said Boots, and Rosie scrambled out of the car, said goodbye to Polly and ran into the shop. ‘Thanks for giving her a lift, Polly.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Polly, ‘the girl’s adorable. So am I.’ She looked up at him from the car. She couldn’t help herself, she loved everything about him, his looks, his masculinity, his whimsical self and his lazy, almost blind left eye, which she always wanted to kiss. ‘Well, say something.’
‘Yes, all right, you’re adorable, Polly. Can’t stop, though, must get back to my desk.’
‘Stinker. Look, couldn’t we dash off to Paris together for a little while? Say for a year?’
‘Sounds exciting,’ said Boots, ‘and French.’
‘Do you mean I excite you?’ asked Polly.
‘Frequently,’ said Boots.
‘Well, then?’
‘Well what?’
‘You can manage a little adultery, can’t you?’ said Polly. A tram clanged by. People went by. The driver of a horse and cart whistled at Polly. She was oblivious of all the hustle and bustle of Camberwell Green, and didn’t even hear the whistle.
‘Polly, do you want to wreck my marriage?’ asked Boots.
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ said Boots, who had had this kind of conversation with her before.
‘Oh, come on, old love,’ said Polly, ‘meet me somewhere at midnight. Is it fair, is it even decent, for Emily to have all of you all the time?’
‘I’ll have to pass on that one,’ said Boots.
‘I hope you’ve heard that hell hath no fury,’ said Polly. ‘I’ve lived like a virgin ever since I met you, and I’m getting fed-up waiting for you to take me to bed. I’m going to sleep with the next man I meet, even if he’s hairy all over.’
‘Don’t do that, Polly.’
‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Polly, ‘why shouldn’t I?’
‘I’ll break your leg if you do,’ said Boots.
‘You’ll what?’ Polly stared at him. He actually looked as if he meant it.
‘Sorry, my mistake,’ said Boots, ‘it’s none of my business. See you at the house this evening.’ He went back to his office through the shop, leaving Polly almost giddy. Suffering pangs of love, she thought, he cares, he actually cares.
Chinese Lady’s special little gift to Rosie was a silver locket. She had already paid the Camberwell jeweller a deposit on it. She paid the balance and it became Rosie’s. She could place heart-shaped cut-outs from family snapshots inside it, one of Emily and one of Boots. Rosie was rapturous. She did the cut-outs as soon as she got home, and fitted them into the locket. One was a head and shoulders of Boots, the other of Emily and herself, their heads close together. Then, when she closed the locket, she and Emily were both kissing her daddy. Rosie felt blissful about that.
Henry Brannigan spent the evening with Madge in her new flat. He arrived with a bunch of flowers for her, which touched her considerably. But she still felt confused and uncertain, she still felt there must be a catch in the arrangement. She knew men well, of course. There weren’t many who would give on a generous scale to a woman and ask for nothing in return. Henry had said company was enough for him. He didn’t seem to quite realize exactly what he was doing for her. First and foremost he was relieving her of the wretched necessity of going out at night to pick up men in pubs. For three nights now she hadn’t had to do that. The pleasure of keeping her body to herself surprised her.
She asked him where he lived. He told her.
‘You’ve just got one room in yer sister’s place?’ she said. She had the fire alight and they were sitting in front of it. She wore the short skirt and teasing petticoat he had said he liked. ‘Henry, that’s daft, you livin’ in one room when you could easy afford a flat. Does yer sister cook for you of an evenin’?’
‘No, I always eat a good meal midday,’ he said.
‘But you ’ave to ’ave something of an evenin’,’ said Madge.
‘Well, I frequently pick up fried fish when I’m out walkin’.’
‘You shouldn’t ’ave to do that,’ said Madge. ‘I’ll do a light supper for both of us every evenin’.’
‘I wouldn’t want to ask that of yer,’ said Henry Brannigan.
‘You ’aven’t asked,’ said Madge, ‘I’ve offered. You come ’ere at seven every evenin’ and we’ll eat supper together. You like company, you said—’
‘I like your company.’
‘Well, I like company meself.’
‘You’re a good woman,’ he said.
‘I was once, I ain’t able to call meself that now.’
‘Perhaps you ain’t been all that respectable, but that don’t mean you’re not a good woman.’
‘Well, it’s downright kind of you to say so, Henry.’ Madge eyed his gaunt look. ‘’Ave you been sufferin’ on account of losin’ yer wife?’
‘It’s been on me mind,’ he said.
‘Still, you’re lookin’ a bit better since I first met yer,’ said Madge. His eyes weren’t so dark and brooding. He looked more satisfied with life. ‘Didn’t you ’ave any children?’
‘No, no children,’ he said. ‘Nor you, of course.’
‘No, nor me,’ she said. ‘Missed out on that, didn’t I?’
‘Now don’t let it worry you,’ he said. ‘What you didn’t ’ave an’ what me an’ Matilda didn’t ’ave won’t be missed. There’s too many perishin’ kids, anyway. They get under yer feet ten at a time in some places.’
‘Henry, you can’t blame kids for bein’ born,’ said Madge, ‘and it would please me to ’ear you talk less uncharitable about them.’
‘What’s this? Givin’ me orders, are yer, lady?’
‘As if I would,’ said Madge.
‘Only jokin’,’ he said. ‘Now, ’ow about a walk and pickin’ up some fish an’ chips?’
‘You don’t ’ave to break me arm, not over fish an’ chips,’ she said. ‘I’ll be pleasured to walk to the shop with yer, Henry.’
‘We’ll watch the lines, eh?’
‘Henry, we don’t ’ave to do that all the time, only when we’re in the mood. I’ll ’ave to take yer mind off doin’ it all the time, or you’ll get too serious about it.’
‘We’ll see,’ he said.
‘I’ll put me ’at an’ coat on,’ said Madge.
They enjoyed a nice companionable walk down to the shop, and she went along with his wish for them not to tread on visible lines.
The inquest on the young Bermondsey girl was held on Friday. Boots attended, with Mr Brown. It was merely a question of the parents confirming what day it was when their daughter went out for a walk and never returned, and of Mr Brown confirming how the body was found. That, together with the post-mortem report, proved enough to bring in a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown.
The Saturday newspapers published details of the inquest. Mr Brown, whose name was mentioned, collared the family’s newspaper when it plopped on to the mat and took it to work with him. He did not bring it home with him. Saturday, anyway, wasn’t a day when too many people sat down with their dailies.
Mrs Mason did mention the matter to her lodger, Mr Ponsonby, on his way out of the house, however.
‘What, what?’ he said.
‘The pore gel, Mr Ponsonby, down Bermondsey way. Murdered, she was. It says so in the paper.’
‘Dear goodness, what are we coming to, Mrs Mason?’
‘Found in a scrap yard, ’er body was, by some workmen an’ the yard manager. ’Orrible. I ’ope they catch the brute that done it.’
‘What a day, what a day,’ sighed Mr Ponsonby. ‘What can be done to such people?’
‘Hang ’em,’ said Mrs Mason.
‘Yes, indeed. Ah, now I’ve forgotten where I’m going.’
‘Down the market,’ said Mrs Mason.
‘Ah, so I am, so I am.’ Mr Ponsonby beamed at his landlady. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t forget to come back,’ said Mrs Mason.
It was mid-afternoon, and Mr Ponsonby, having found his way to the East Street market, was about to inspect the rosy apples on a fruit stall when he came face to face with the unpleasant person whose path he’d crossed some days ago. Certainly, he was dressed more acceptably, in a trilby hat and suit that looked new, but Mr Ponsonby recognized him immediately with his dark eyes and dark features. And, as before, they were in each other’s way. Mr Ponsonby at once brought up his rolled umbrella to hold the fellow off.
Henry Brannigan stared at him.
‘What’s up with you?’ he asked.
‘Mind your manners, sir, I shall not give way,’ said Mr Ponsonby.
‘Eh?’ Henry Brannigan gave the silly old sod a surprised look before realizing there was something familiar about him. His memory placed him among the many people with whom he’d had pavement confrontations. And that led him to recognition. ‘Oh, it’s you, you barmy old bugger,’ he said.
‘Stand off,’ said Mr Ponsonby.
‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello,’ said the stallholder, ‘you gents set for a ding-dong, are yer? Well, don’t get in the way of me customers or me bananas.’
Henry Brannigan, his life much less bedevilled by fantasies since finding a woman who was a kindred spirit, pushed the brolly aside quite good-temperedly.
‘No ’ard feelings, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s only on pavements that I don’t like people gettin’ in me way.’ He made a little detour, brushing Mr Ponsonby’s shoulder unaggressively as he went by him.
‘What an ugly fellow,’ murmured Mr Ponsonby to his umbrella. ‘Ought to be hanged, ought to be hanged. I must tell Mrs Mason. Now, what was I doing?’