Avalanche of Daisies (42 page)

Now that the weather was warmer, the steam from the copper permeated the flat. She'd hung the washing in the garden – for the first time in months – but the bathroom walls were streaming with water and the air on the landing was dank and unpleasant.

Better open a few windows, she thought, and tiptoed into the bedroom to do it while it was in her mind. Bob was lying in a hump under the covers, sound asleep and snoring, so she raised the sash very gently so as not to wake him. As she did so, she looked down idly into the street below – and there was that horrible black Humber cruising towards the house. Not the fly in the ointment again, she thought, glaring at it. That's the last straw on a washday. I thought we'd got rid of him long since, damned nuisance. Well she's not here so he'll just have to go away. Maybe he won't stop.

But no. He parked the car, leant across the passenger seat, rolled down the window and looked out. He'd seen
her before she could step back from the window. So when he waved and called hello, she had to go down and answer the door to him or he'd have woken Bob.

She wasn't particularly gracious. ‘What's brought
you
here then?' she said, blocking the entrance.

Until she spoke he'd had no idea. He simply followed his anger and the car had brought him to her house. But at the sound of her voice his confusion cleared and he knew exactly why he'd come. It was to be revenged. That's what it was. To pay Barbara out for turning him down. To put her in her place. ‘I got something to tell you,' he said.

‘She's out,' she told him brusquely.

‘I know. Thass
you
I come to see.'

There was something about his expression and the tone of his voice that stirred her curiosity. ‘You'd better come in then, I suppose,' she said. ‘Don't make a noise. My husband's asleep.'

It was quiet in the kitchen and there was a pleasant breeze blowing through the half-open window. She gave him tea and indicated that he should sit at the table. Then they both waited.

‘Well?' she said at last.

‘Thass about your daughter-in-law, Mrs Wilkins,' he told her.

‘I gathered that,' she said impatiently. ‘What about her?'

‘She hain't what she ought to be.'

He was gratified to see that she looked pleased to hear it. ‘Tell me something I don't know.'

‘She was out with me this morning. Did you know that?'

‘No,' Heather said grimly. ‘I didn't but I might have guessed.'

‘We went to see a house.'

That shocked her. ‘You did
what
?'

‘That was her idea,' he said quickly. ‘I didn't plan it, to tell the truth. I was against it. But you know how she
go on. I thought she'd holler if I didn't take her. She's a rare one for hollerin'.'

Heather could believe that too. But she'd thought of something else. ‘I suppose you're the one who bought the goose.'

He admitted it with a self-deprecating smile.

‘And the one she's been going to the pictures with.'

He admitted that too, this time assuming an apologetic expression. ‘I'm ever so sorry. You weren't supposed to know. She made me wait for her round the corner, so's you wouldn't see the car.'

‘Artful baggage! And you've been to see a house, you said.'

Her response was so encouraging he was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘She
would
have me put my name on the tickets,' he confided. ‘Well not just
my
name actually. I had to pretend we were married. Thass what I came to tell you. Look, I'll show you.' He took the two stubs from his pocket and laid them on the table in front of her.

She read them and grew pink-cheeked with anger. ‘Mr
and Mrs Castlemain
.' The effrontery of it. Didn't I say she was a bad lot? Hard as nails and bold as brass.

‘An' thass not all,' Vic said, when she looked up, ‘I'm afraid.'

‘Have another cup of tea,' she said kindly, ‘and tell me all about it.'

So Victor took tea and revenge and they went on enjoying his confidences. He described how worried he'd been to be going out with a married woman – ‘I mean, I wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been her. Knowing her all these years, you see. We been like brother an' sister' – how concerned he was in case people assumed he'd been two-timing Steve – ‘I met him when he was in Lynn, a fine man' – how shocking it was that she'd put her name down for a house without consulting her own husband – ‘An' not even in her own name.'

‘Whose then?'

‘Well …' he pretended to dither. ‘Look I'm sorry to have to tell you this. I wouldn't if it wasn't for …'

She insisted. ‘Whose?'

‘Well mine actually. Mr and Mrs Castlemain, same as on the ticket.'

She was enraged. ‘I can't understand it. I really can't. I mean, what's she playing at?'

‘I probably shouldn't say this, Mrs Wilkins,' Vic said, leaning towards her earnestly and enjoying the drama of what he was going to say, ‘but I think she wants a second string to her bow. Just in case, sort of thing. I think thass all I am. A second string to her bow.'

The implication of it made Heather widen her eyes in anger but before she could answer she became aware that Bob was standing beside them, yawning and scratching his grey hair. They'd been so absorbed they hadn't heard him walk in. ‘Any tea, Mother?' he said.

Heather looked up at him, her face full of satisfaction. ‘You'll never believe what I've just heard,' she said.

Vic stood up before she could start the story. ‘I'd better be off,' he said. ‘Time for work, sort of thing.' There was something about Mr Wilkins' expression that made him uneasy. He'd done a good job with the old girl. No point running risks and spoiling everything. ‘I'll see myself out. Thanks for the tea.' And went at once.

‘What was all that about?' Bob asked, settling into his chair and reaching for the morning paper.

‘I got a nice little lamb's kidney for your breakfast,' Heather said, getting up to cook it. ‘There's tea in the pot. I'll tell you while it's cooking.' And did, in furious detail.

Bob heard her out patiently but with a sinking heart.

‘Done to a turn,' she said setting the kidneys before
him. ‘Just how you like 'em. So what d'you think a' that?'

‘What I always think. You're a very good cook. First rate. I dunno how you do it.'

‘You know what I mean,' she rebuked him, as she sat down again. ‘What d'you think of all this carry-on?'

He chewed his first mouthful thoughtfully. ‘Don't let's be hasty,' he advised. ‘Let's hear what
she
's got to say before we judge.'

‘She can't say anything,' Heather told him with bitter satisfaction. ‘Not now. Didn't I tell you she was a bad lot? All that secrecy. I knew there was something going on.'

‘You've only got his word for it,' Bob pointed out. ‘I wouldn't trust him particularly. He's got an axe to grind. An' he's a spiv.'

‘That's right,' Heather said crossly. ‘Take her part. I should!'

‘Somebody's got to,' he said, giving her his wry grin. ‘She's not here to answer for herself.'

‘Wouldn't make any difference if she was. There's no answer she can give.'

‘Well wait an' see, eh? Give her a chance.'

‘I've given her a darn sight too many chances, if you ask me,' Heather said, looking fierce. ‘We should've spoken out right at the start, when she would go off dancing with every Tom, Dick an' Harry. I knew it wasn't right. I told you so at the time if you remember.'

‘Yes,' he admitted, ‘you did. You told me she was a good brave girl as well.' And when she scowled, ‘You came back here after the rocket an' you said she was a good brave girl.'

She had to agree, although she didn't want to. ‘Oh she's brave enough. I grant you that. But she's flighty. Off with other men. There's our poor Steve out there being shot at an' here she is mucking about with other men. That's what
I
object to. Any mother would.' Her cheeks were flushed with righteous indignation, her
mouth a determined line, her eyes daring him to disagree.

It was politic to change the subject. ‘You got any more tea?' he asked, holding up his cup. ‘I'm dry to me boot-straps this morning.'

Outside in the garden their poor scuffed lawn was springing green again and there was a crop of London pride putting out purple flowers down by the shed. He could just see it through the bellying sheets and shirts on the washing line. ‘It's a lovely day,' he said.

That was Victor's feeling too as he drove happily back to the Isle of Dogs. What a triumph! he thought. That'll teach her. She needn't think she can put me down and get away with it. I'm more than a match for her. I'm a match for anyone. I had that stupid old mawther eating out of my hands back there. Eating out of my hands. Which reminded him that he hadn't had any dinner. I'll open a tin of that American steak, he decided, the minute I get in.

But in the event the steak had to wait, for when he got to the house, Phossie was in the living room packing a suitcase. He was wearing his best suit, his hair was fairly dripping with brilliantine, and his ferrety face was closed and drawn. There were clothes strewn all over the room. The horsehair sofa was covered in shirts, the rocking chair held a pile of brand-new underwear and his spare shoes stood on the rag rug in front of the empty grate, looking as if he'd just jumped out of them.

‘What's this?' Victor asked, strolling into the room. ‘We goin' somewhere, are we?'

‘Too many a' them bleedin' redcaps,' Phossie explained, scooping up the shirts and stuffing them into the case. ‘I'm off, aren't I.'

‘Off?'

‘Got to get away,' Phossie said, trying to cram his shoes into the case on top of the shirts. ‘One a' the
buggers nearly got me. Hardly put my head out the door, had I, an' there he was.' He despaired of the shoes. ‘You can have these if you like. They won't go in.'

‘They're too big for me,' Vic said, visibly turning up his nose at them. ‘Put them in a carrier bag. Where you going then?'

‘North,' Phossie said, opening the cupboard. ‘There's redcaps everywhere you look down here.'

‘What about the Skibbereen? Does he know?'

Phossie pulled an old carrier bag out of the cupboard and tipped its collection of ancient wires and rusty tools onto the floor. ‘Nope. You can tell him if you like. An' while you're about it, tell him them macs was perished. Right load a' rubbish they are. I haven't managed to shift one of 'em, have I, never mind twenty.'

‘Thass nothing to do with me,' Vic said. ‘You bought the bloody things. You tell him. Do your own dirty work.'

‘Sod that fer a game a' soldiers,' Phossie said, pushing the last of his underwear into the case. ‘Like I told you, it's every man fer himself in this lark.' And he bolted up the stairs.

He was going to run before I got back, Vic understood. I wasn't supposed to find him like this. I was supposed to come home to an empty house. How underhand! And I'll bet he's taken all the food. That'ud be just his style.

There were bags and cases all over the room but it didn't take him long to find the one he wanted. He tipped the contents out behind the sofa where Phossie wouldn't see it – tins, sugar, butter, tea, coffee – and stuffed the empty bag with an old cushion. Bloody thief, he thought, surveying the hoard. He wasn't gonna leave me a mouthful.

‘Well best a' luck!' Phossie said, reappearing at the top of the stairs. ‘I'm off now.' His case was so full he was bent over sideways by the weight of it. But he
gathered the rest of the bags in his other hand, found his balance and staggered for the door. ‘See you around.'

‘I doubt it,' Vic said, adding with heavy irony. ‘Sure you ain't left nothing behind?'

Nothing but the stink of his sweat and his sodden fag-ends all over the floor and a pile of filthy clothes in the bedroom. I'm not staying here with all his rubbish, Vic told himself. He's turned it into a bloody slum. I'll go down the pub and have a liquid lunch. I've got the cash for it. There was something to be said for not taking Spitfire to dinner after all.

As he walked to the pub, he thought of the pre-fabs and remembered how neat and clean they'd been. Thass the sort of place for me to live, he thought. Not in this dump. He glowered at the street, hating it. More than half the rotten houses were empty and the terrace next to the bomb-site was just a shell, no tiles on the roof, no glass in the windows, just those horrible black walls, still standing and covered in dust. At one point he could see right through to the terrace in the next street. All right for Phossie but I'm a darn sight too good for it. I shall find somewhere else, first thing. Squaring his shoulders he strode into the pub and ordered himself a beer and a whisky chaser.

‘Victor!' a voice boomed. ‘Is Phossie with you?'

It was the Skibbereen. He'd recognised the smell of his cigar even before he turned and saw those broad shoulders and the bulge of that great bull-neck. The Skibbereen, sitting at the corner table with two of the gang, the tall scraggy bloke called Tiffany on his right and Mog, looking dour as ever on his left.

‘He's scarpa'd,' Vic said, taking the fourth seat at their table. ‘Gone north. Too many redcaps.'

‘Pity,' the Skibbereen said, wiping his mouth with the back of one plump hand. ‘I had a job for him.'

In his present self-satisfied mood, Vic offered his services at once. ‘Give it to me then,' he said. ‘I'm as good as Phossie any day of the week. Better in fact.'

The Skibbereen noted his boldness but wasn't impressed. ‘I need someone dependable,' he said. ‘That's my middle name,' Vic said.