Missing Person (8 page)

‘Is that serious?’ asked Tilly.

‘You bet,’ said Dan.

‘Two dresses each?’

‘They’d like that,’ said Dan, ‘and so would I.’

‘All right,’ said Tilly, ‘I’ll let you know ’ow much I’ll charge. By the way, what about me rent and a rent book?’

‘I’m not askin’ any rent for today,’ said Dan, ‘I owe you for today, Tilly. Can’t tell you how obliged I am. Tell you what, come Saturday and you can pay your first bit of rent then. Say half a crown, and then seven-and-six Saturday week and onwards. How’s that?’

‘Well, I won’t complain about that,’ said Tilly, and made for the door. She turned and said, ‘But listen,
don’t
try and take advantage of me good nature tomorrow. I won’t ’ave any time to look after your gels tomorrow.’

‘Understood, Tilly,’ said Dan breezily.

‘Good evenin’ to you, then,’ said Tilly, and found a smile for the girls as she left.

Upstairs she did some more sorting out so that she could settle down to a few hours work at her sewing-machine.

She heard Mr Rogers and the girls in the passage thirty minutes later.

‘Come on, then,’ she heard him say, ‘let’s go and see how Alice’s fractured foot is.’

‘Can Tilly come wiv us?’ That was Penny-Farving asking the question.

‘’Fraid not, angel, she’s busy.’

‘Oh, dear, poor woman,’ said Bubbles.

Tilly smiled. She heard the front door open and close, and the house became quiet. She closed her own door, then sat down at her sewing-machine in front of the back room window. The evening sun danced on the crowded rooftops of Walworth.

THE BALMY MAY
evening had brought Boots and Mr Finch out into the garden. Boots, having finished mowing the lawn, put the machine away in the shed. At the same time, his stepfather finished his diligent work with a hoe, and they sat down together at the garden table. They both looked as if physical exercise in the open air agreed with them, although it hadn’t done very much for their gardening clothes. Ancient trousers, suffering wear and tear, stayed up as much by force of habit as by such help as old belts were able to give. And their open-necked shirts looked long past retiring age.

Rosie appeared on cue, carrying a tray on which stood two bottles of light ale and two glass tumblers.

‘Refreshments, Daddy, with Mummy’s compliments,’ she said, placing the tray on the table. ‘She says you’re both deserving, but I have to tell you that Nana says you both look sights.’

‘We’ve all got problems,’ said Boots, ‘but take a bow for bringing the refreshments, poppet.’

‘Oh, I’ll make do with five bob extra pocket money for next month,’ said Rosie.

‘Sounds a reasonable offer, Rosie,’ said Mr Finch.

‘Five bob’s reasonable?’ said Boots.

‘Yes, aren’t you lucky I’m not a grasping girl?’ said Rosie. ‘Shall I undo the beer stoppers for you?’

‘Not if you’re going to charge me for that as well,’ said Boots.

‘Should I charge him, Grandpa?’ asked Rosie.

‘Why not?’ smiled Mr Finch, thinking the girl a picture in the warm evening light. Rosie, he thought, would be a quite beautiful young woman by the time she was nineteen. And her personality was totally engaging. There she was, a teasing smile on her face. She had combed out her wavy hair to let it hang down her back, a blue ribbon around it. Her attire was simple, a white button-up blouse and a short blue skirt. Rosie would always go for simplicity, not frills and flounces. ‘It’s an art, Rosie, freeing stoppers from beer bottles. Yes, you should charge.’

‘All right, say another five bob, Daddy,’ she said.

‘Hold on,’ said Boots, ‘it’s your granddad’s turn to fork out.’

‘No, this is just between you and me,’ said Rosie, picking up one of the bottles. ‘Another five bob will make it ten bob in all. No, say seven-and-six, then you’ll make a profit of two-and-six. That’ll mean we’ll both be in the money. Can’t say fairer, can I? There.’ She twisted the stopper free, and did the same with the second bottle. Froth rose and put a light brown foamy cap on each bottle. ‘Shall I pour, Grandpa?’

‘Don’t say yes, Edwin,’ said Boots, ‘or it’ll cost me another five bob. Go and help yourself to a lemonade, Rosie, then come and join us.’

‘Oh, don’t you want to have men’s talk?’ asked Rosie.

‘We’d like some young lady’s talk as well,’ said Boots, ‘as long as there’s no charge.’

‘Oh, I never charge for talking,’ said Rosie, and sped back into the house.

Boots and Mr Finch poured their ale and drank thirstily, counting themselves as deserving cases after their gardening stint. They chatted in the easy way of
men
always completely at home in each other’s company. Rosie rejoined them, a glass of fizzy lemonade in her hand. She sat down, a lithe girl of natural grace. Boots observed her, the fun girl of his life. She had always been that. He wondered how long it would be before he lost her by reason of marriage. Rosie would never be less than very special.

‘You’ve something on your mind, Rosie?’ said Mr Finch, noting her thoughtful expression.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so, Grandpa,’ said Rosie.

‘Something serious?’ said Mr Finch, who had not forgotten Sunday’s strange phone call.

‘Well, yes,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s a message from Nana. She said if both of you don’t give your disreputable gardening trousers to the dustmen, she’ll burn them. She said that never in all her born days has she seen more disgraceful trousers, except on ragged hooligans. She said they’d even look disgraceful on a scarecrow.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Finch.

‘H’m,’ said Boots.

‘H’m won’t do you any good, Daddy,’ said Rosie, ‘you’ll have to think of something better than that. You too, Grandpa. I can’t go and tell Nana you just said “ah” and Daddy said “h’m”. She wants action, like both of you taking your trousers off this very minute and putting them in the dustbin.’

‘Tell her we’ve all got worries,’ said Boots.

‘No, that won’t work, either,’ said Rosie.

‘All right, kitten,’ said Boots, ‘try telling her that your Grandpa and I are working on it.’

‘Some hopes if you think she’ll swallow that,’ said Rosie. ‘She told me your gardening trousers are a shame and disgrace to the whole family, and the neighbours as well.’

‘There’s a problem,’ said Boots. ‘Not about putting our trousers into the dustbin, that’s easy enough. But what about the disgrace and shame to the family – and the neighbours – if the dustmen give them back?’

Rosie shrieked with laughter. Then she jumped up and ran indoors.

‘There’ll be no quarter given, Boots, when Rosie delivers that message,’ said Mr Finch.

‘Well, get ready to field the brickbats,’ said Boots.

‘I’m fond of my relics,’ said Mr Finch.

‘I feel married to mine,’ said Boots, and refilled his glass. They sat waiting, and Rosie came out again after five minutes.

‘You’re both in real trouble now,’ she said, ‘Nana’s taken umbrage.’

‘Is she bringing it out here?’ asked Mr Finch.

‘No, she’s saving it up until you both go indoors,’ said Rosie, sitting down again. ‘She said you’re both disgraceful music hall comics, and then she asked Mummy what there was to laugh about. Mummy said she wasn’t laughing, she was having a fit about Nana being married to one of the comics and herself to the other. She said she and Nana just had to live with it, that it was the sort of cross lots of wives had to bear. Nana said just wait till I see the pair of them. Oh, lor’, Daddy, I think you and Grandpa are really going to catch it. You’ll be safest if you stay out here all night.’

‘Something has to be done,’ said Mr Finch.

‘Right, you’re the patrol leader, Rosie,’ said Boots. ‘Sneak up to our rooms, get hold of a fairly decent pair of trousers for each of us, then sneak back here with them.’

‘Got you, Daddy,’ said Rosie, and away she went. She reappeared from around the side of the house after a while, carrying two pairs of trousers. Boots and Mr
Finch
retired to the shed, took off their relics and put on the presentable replacements. They came out and gave the relics to Rosie, who promised to hide them.

‘They’re old and cherished friends of ours,’ said Mr Finch.

‘Yes, I know, Grandpa,’ said Rosie, and away she went again, a girl of quicksilver. When she reappeared once more, she looked victorious.

‘They’re out of Nana’s reach?’ said Boots.

‘Oh, not half,’ said Rosie, ‘and I don’t suppose she’ll burn them now, in any case. I cut them up with Mummy’s dressmaking scissors and put them in the dustbin. D’you think that was a good burial for old and cherished friends?’

‘Say that again,’ said Boots, coming to his feet.

‘Well, they were a bit past it – oh, crikey, is that you looking like thunder and lightning? Oh, help.’ Rosie ran, Boots in pursuit. Over the lawn she ran, and around the kitchen garden, little shrieks escaping. Boots caught her as she travelled over the lawn again. She swung round, flushed and laughing.

‘Minx, you plotted that with your Nana,’ he said.

‘Yes, I know, Daddy. Well, Nana has to win sometimes.’ Boots laughed and shook his head at her. Rosie impulsively hugged him, thinking as she often did that her happiest moments were always those she shared with her adoptive father.

‘Anything else up your sleeve?’ asked Boots.

‘No, nothing,’ she said, ‘except you owe me seven-and-six for my money-box.’

From the open kitchen door, Tim called.

‘Someone wants you on the phone, Grandpa.’

‘Who is it, Tim?’ asked Mr Finch, getting to his feet.

‘A man,’ said Tim, and Mr Finch entered the
house
, Sunday’s phone call on his mind. In the hall, he picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘George here, Edwin.’

‘Problems?’ said Mr Finch. George Duncan was a close colleague.

‘Not really. The file you took home with you to study, can I rely on your bringing it back tomorrow?’

‘Of course. I intended to, in any case.’

‘Good. Sorry to have bothered you at home, old man.’

‘No bother,’ said Mr Finch, and said goodbye. The doorbell rang. He answered it. General Sir Henry Simms, very military-looking with his spruce iron-grey moustache and his straight back, smiled at him. Still on the active list at the age of fifty-six, his looks were deceptive at first glance. He was no old-fashioned, hidebound soldier. He was a very reasonable and percipient one, with a dry sense of humour. He’d become a family friend, mainly because of his great liking for Boots, to whom his daughter Polly was incurably attached.

‘Good evening, Edwin,’ he said, ‘I rang Boots earlier about coming over.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Mr Finch. ‘Come in and have a light ale with us in the garden.’

‘Lead me to it,’ said Sir Henry, and followed Mr Finch through the house to the garden. Passing through the kitchen, he said hello to Emily.

‘Oh, pleased to see you, Sir Henry,’ said Emily, just a little flustered, despite being a woman who was rarely like that. But she sometimes found it difficult to believe this distinguished man had actually become a family friend. He and Lady Simms had even been to Sunday tea, with their daughter Polly, and Sir Henry
and
Polly had both joined in the garden cricket. Chinese Lady frequently said she just didn’t know how it had come about, it wasn’t any of her doing, Boots had sprung it on her some months after the wedding of Sammy and Susie, and only a few days after Polly Simms had come back from darkest Africa. Kenya, said Mr Finch. It’s all darkest Africa to me, said Chinese Lady. Boots just casually mentioned he’d invited them, which put her into the kind of state that shouldn’t be allowed. That only oldest son of mine, she said, I wouldn’t be surprised if he came home one day to say he could raise the dead, then ask if there was any tea in the pot.

Boots, standing beside the garden table when Mr Finch appeared with Sir Henry, moved to greet the General. Rosie was at her father’s elbow.

‘Not interrupting anything, am I, Boots?’ said Sir Henry, shaking his hand.

‘Only a discussion with Rosie on how I came to owe her seven-and-six,’ said Boots.

‘How are you, Rosie?’ asked Sir Henry genially.

‘Oh, one up on Daddy, I can tell you that, Sir Henry,’ said Rosie, who never lost any of her composure, however exalted the company. She was very much like Boots in that respect, even though she wasn’t his natural daughter. She didn’t question how it was that he’d come to be a friend of the aristocratic Sir Henry when he’d only been a sergeant during the war. It simply seemed something that had happened. Sir Henry and his daughter Polly had actually attended her fifteenth birthday party a few weeks ago. Lady Simms, Polly’s step-mother, would have been there too if she hadn’t had to go up to Yorkshire to visit her sick father. Sir Henry and Polly joined in the garden cricket and later, after tea, in all the
compulsory
party games, when Polly discovered what a yell it was to participate in Forfeits as devised by Boots. She demanded that Chinese Lady lock him up, and Chinese Lady said she’d given up trying to make a gentleman of her eldest son. Boots said he’d always preferred to be a common or garden bloke. I’m a leg man myself, said Uncle Sammy. Same thing, said Boots. Count me in, said Uncle Tommy. Chinese Lady said you’re all reprobates, and Sir Henry said he was one himself. Rosie thought him a very nice man. He’d come this evening to see Boots about something.

‘Rosie,’ said Boots, ‘would you like to fetch another bottle of ale and a glass?’

‘Love to,’ said Rosie, ‘and I’ll do it for nothing.’ Off she went, and the three men sat down. Sir Henry drew a large folded brown envelope from his jacket pocket and passed it to Boots.

‘It needs filling in, Boots, and signing,’ he said. ‘If you’ll then let me have it back in a day or two, I’ll see it arrives on the right desk accompanied by a recommendation from me.’

Boots drew out a comprehensive form relating to enlistment in Officers’ Reserve. Sir Henry had been after Boots for years, on the grounds that there would be another war with Germany sometime during the Thirties, and Boots had finally agreed to apply. He’d been given to understand that if such a war did break out, he would probably take command of a training camp for recruits. However, what Sir Henry actually had in mind for him was a position on his staff, for Sir Henry, providing he was still active, was intent on securing command of a corps.