On Mother Brown's Doorstep (15 page)

‘That was when me bruvver Will met ’er,’ said Freddy, examining his bike for dents.

‘Yes, ’e looked at ’er, an’ that was what made ’er fall over, she said.’

‘Don’t be daft, Cassie, ’ow could anyone fall over just by bein’ looked at?’

‘Well, she could see ’e was a lion tamer,’ said Cassie, ‘that was what done it.’

‘’E ain’t a lion tamer, ’e’s a soldier,’ said Freddy.

‘Yes, ain’t ’e ’andsome?’ said Cassie. ‘I expect ’e’ll get a job one day servin’ the King an’ Queen with their Sunday teas. They always ’ave strawberry jam with their Sunday teas, did yer know that, Freddy?’

‘I suppose I know it now,’ grinned Freddy.

‘Can we do more ridin’?’ asked Cassie.

‘D’you like me bike, then?’

‘Not ’alf,’ said Cassie, ‘an’ yer cap’s ever such an ’elp.’

‘All right, we’ll do mote ridin’ till our suppers,’ said Freddy. ‘Lucky there ain’t no dents in me bike.’

‘Your cap’s got all creased, lovey,’ said Mrs Brown when Freddy returned home alive and unscratched.

Freddy, taking his cap off, gave it a critical look, then banged it about on his knee.

‘Yes, well, it’s been in Cassie’s bloomers,’ he said.

‘It’s what?’ said Will.

‘It’s what?’ yelled Susie.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Mrs Brown.

‘That blessed boy, you can’t believe ’im, can yer?’ said Sally.

‘Bein’ ’is dad, I want to believe ’im, but I ain’t sure I ’eard ’im right,’ said Mr Brown.

‘I dunno what yer all fallin’ about for,’ said Freddy.
‘Cassie
rode on me carrier an’ used me cap for a cushion, and it ain’t my fault girls ’ave got soft bums.’

Sally had a fit, Susie shrieked with laughter, Will grinned all over, Mr Brown rolled his eyes and Mrs Brown said, ‘It’s best to say bottoms, Freddy love, specially in company. Now let’s all sit down and ’ave supper.’

‘Wait a tick,’ said Will, ‘I’d like to know who stuffed your cap down Cassie’s whatsits, Freddy. Was it you, or did Cassie manage it herself?’

‘Oh, don’t,’ gasped Sally, ‘I’ll fall ill.’

‘’Ere, can you see me doin’ a thing like that?’ protested Freddy.

‘Not without usin’ my imagination,’ said Susie.

‘Cassie did it ’erself,’ said Freddy.

‘Well, I suppose some part of the fam’ly honour’s been saved,’ said Will.

‘I’m still goin’ to be ill,’ said Sally.

‘It’s a corkin’ bike, Susie,’ said Freddy, ‘I really like yer for it.’

‘Me too for mine,’ said Sally.

‘Well, if we could all sit down now?’ said Mrs Brown, and they all took their places at the table for rabbit stew, highly succulent and flavoursome.

Mr Brown had brought an evening paper in and was sitting on it. It contained the news that the dead girl had been strangled, that the scrap yard in which her body had been found used to be owned by Collier and Son of Bermondsey and was now the property of Adams Enterprises of Camberwell. The pathologist had given her age as twelve at the time of death. This had enabled the police to narrow the field in respect of missing persons, and the police were interviewing a Bermondsey family whose daughter had disappeared thirteen months ago. They were also making enquiries in other directions.

They were, in fact, giving beery Mr Collier and his equally beery son a hard time.

Susie asked her dad how he was getting on in Bermondsey.

‘Well, we’re ’eld up a bit on account of ’aving to sort a lot of things out before we can start doin’ any business,’ he said.

‘You’ll do it, Dad,’ said Susie, ‘you’re a good old sorter-out. Sally, don’t forget that on Saturday afternoon you’re comin’ with me to our Brixton shop for a fittin’. We’re meetin’ Sammy’s nieces Rosie and Annabelle there.’

The fittings were for Susie’s bridal gown and the bridesmaids’ dresses.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t forget that, Susie,’ said Sally. ‘I could cycle there on me new bike, if yer like.’

‘No, you couldn’t, lovey,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘we can’t have you cyclin’ in all that traffic.’

‘I don’t mind takin’ ’er, Mum,’ said Freddy, ‘she can ride on me carrier, like Cassie did.’

‘With a decent cushion down her whatsits,’ said Will.

Hysterics ran around the table, but stopped when they reached Mrs Brown, who said, ‘No, Freddy love, you’re not ridin’ any bike to Brixton, either.’

‘There’s a murder been done down Bermondsey way,’ said Mrs Queenie Watts, who lived with her husband in Brandon Street and had her brother, Henry Brannigan, as a lodger. She was reading her husband’s evening paper.

‘There’ll be a nasty one done ’ere in a minute,’ said Stan Watts from the scullery. He was regarding the sink. It was full of washing-up. ‘There’s two days’ dirty dishes out ’ere.’

‘Oh, I ain’t been feelin’ up to things recent,’ said Mrs Watts, hairpins loose and a button looking as if it was
about
to desert her blouse. ‘I think I’m gettin’ an ’eart condition. ‘Ave yer read about this pore young girl that’s got done in?’

‘I’ve read it all right,’ said Mr Watts, ‘and I’ll be readin’ tomorrer about you bein’ done in yerself.’

‘That ain’t a very nice joke,’ said Mrs Watts.

‘It ain’t a joke.’

‘Nor’s me ’eart condition, I can feel it gettin’ chronic. Now come in ’ere, Stan, an’ pour yerself a glass of beer. I’ll ’ave one too, it’ll cheer me up a bit. I don’t like readin’ about murders.’

‘One thing,’ said Mr Watts, ‘you won’t get the miseries readin’ about your own, you won’t be doin’ no more readin’.’

‘Strangled she was, pore girl,’ said Mrs Watts.

‘So will you be, Queenie, if I keep comin’ ’ome to this kind of mess,’ said Mr Watts.

‘Only twelve she was, did yer read that?’ said Mrs Watts.

‘Well, you’re nearly fifty, but that won’t save yer,’ said Mr Watts. Resignedly, he filled the kettle and put it on a gas ring, knowing he’d got to do the washing-up himself. If his wife was lazy, she was still good-natured and always managed to give him a decent supper. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he said, ‘’Enry’s on ’is way out, Queenie. ’E’s always goin’ out, that brother of yourn.’ The front door opened and closed.

‘Well, ’e don’t do no ’arm,’ said Mrs Watts, ‘and I expect ’e can enjoy a bit of company in a pub.’

‘Not ’im,’ said Mr Watts, ‘’e don’t need company.’

‘Course ’e does, Stan, ’e’s still a grievin’ widower and ’e knows ’e can get cheered up in a pub.’

‘Always found ’im a funny bloke meself,’ said Mr Watts, ‘and it didn’t do ’im much good losin’ ’is wife
Matilda
like that. Ruddy ’orrible that was, fallin’ out of a train. Poor old Matty.’

‘Don’t talk about it,’ said Mrs Watts, and let a shudder squirm its way through her stout and indolent body.

Lines at night didn’t count if they couldn’t be seen. It was only when they showed up under the light of shop windows or street lamps that they offered their challenge. It was then that Henry Brannigan had to step carefully. He sometimes had horrible dreams, dreams in which he trod on a pavement line and then had bad luck rushing at him in the shape of howling red-eyed wolves. In the nightmarish dreams he ran like a madman, the animals at his back, and every dream always finished with him running until he fell off the edge of the world into a black void. His plummeting fall jerked him awake and brought him out of his nightmare.

He went out frequently at night to escape the solitude of his room. He liked walking, he liked to use his long vigorous stride to eat up the pavements, knowing the lines that couldn’t be seen didn’t matter.

It was damned dark tonight, with no moon and the starry sky blanketed by heavy clouds. The patches of light at intervals caused him to watch for the visible lines. Approaching a pub that cast faint light, he knew a few lines would show up. A man appeared, coming towards him. Henry Brannigan judged they would meet in the faint light. Damnation. It was always a challenge to him not to falter or check, so he kept going, eyes searching for the lines he knew would be visible, even if only faintly. The approaching man had a stride as determined as his own. Curse him. Calamity loomed. Then the pub door opened and a woman in a large hat and a long coat came out. It caused the approaching man to change step and to
leave
the pavement. It got him out of Henry Brannigan’s way at a moment when lines appeared and he needed to lengthen his stride. He was able to do so freely, and a sigh of relief escaped him.

‘’Ere, ’alf a mo’, dearie.’ The woman was at his back, and his feet were in darkness again. He stopped. He owed her a favour, although she didn’t know it. He turned. The faint light reached out to make her face visible. She was handsome after a fashion, but she was tarted up with paint and powder.

‘What d’you want?’ he asked.

‘Make me an offer, lovey.’

He realized what she was, but he still owed her a favour. It wasn’t often that someone’s action was helpful. Usually it was the other way about. He parted his unbuttoned coat, thrust a hand into his pocket and drew out a silver coin, half a crown.

‘Here,’ he said, and gave it to her. Her hand closed over it, and its weight and its feel told her its value. She had had a blank evening, and no-one had even bought her a drink. She liked a drink, just one. She knew that a lot of drink didn’t help a woman’s looks, and she needed her looks. At thirty-eight she had to take care of them.

‘Kind of yer, lovey,’ she said, smiling up into his dark face, ‘but can yer make it five bob? I’ve got a nice flat and you can stay till midnight, if yer like.’

‘I don’t go with women,’ said Henry Brannigan, who would already have gone on his way if he hadn’t felt that fate required him to be friendly as well as grateful. ‘Out of respect for me late wife.’

‘Oh, yer poor man, but what did yer give me this ’alf-crown for, then?’ asked Madge Simpson, who’d been on the game for five years and knew how to keep an eye open for the coppers.

Henry Brannigan wasn’t going to explain. People were bleeding idiots. None of them understood. That coroner hadn’t understood. What a man had to do, he had to do.

‘You ’ard-up?’ he said to the woman.

‘Who ain’t?’ said Madge Simpson.

‘Well, keep the ’alf-crown.’

‘You don’t want nothing for it, lovey?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Yer a gent,’ said Madge. ‘Mind, I ain’t fond of takin’ something for nothing, I ain’t come down to plain beggin’ yet. ’Ere, come ’ome with me, anyway, an’ keep me company for a bit. I’ll make us a pot of tea and a sandwich, it’s one of them evenings when customers don’t seem in the mood.’

‘I’m pleased to ’ave met yer, lady,’ said Henry Brannigan, ‘but I don’t go in for keepin’ company. Good night to yer.’ And he went on his way. He entered the Walworth Road, which was full of lighted shop windows and street lamps. The pavements were bathed in light. His feet knew the Walworth Road paving stones well, he adjusted his stride to them.

‘’Ere, be matey.’

The woman had caught him up and was walking beside him, taking quick steps to keep up with him.

‘’Oppit, lady,’ said Henry Brannigan, the familiar scowl appearing on his face.

‘Don’t be like that, lovey,’ she said, and did a little one-two with her feet.

‘What made you do that?’ he asked, keeping relentlessly to his measured stride.

‘I don’t like treadin’ on the lines,’ she said, ‘it’s bad luck.’

‘What?’ Henry Brannigan could hardly believe his ears.

‘Last time I trod a bit careless on a line, a customer did
it
on me. Pulled ’is trousers on quick an’ went off without payin’, the swine,’ said Madge. ‘Not all me customers are gents, I can tell yer. ’Ere, I live in Amelia Street, it’s just across the road. You can come an’ spend ’alf an hour with me, can’t yer? I can do with a bit of company – ’elp, I nearly ’it that crack. Cracks count as lines to me. Don’t think I’m barmy, I ain’t, I’m just superstitious. I don’t walk under ladders, neither.’ She stopped. ‘Come on, share a pot of tea with me, I like yer, and I won’t pester yer or ask to see yer wallet.’

‘I’ll do that, lady, I’ll share a pot of tea with yer,’ said Henry Brannigan, hiding the excitement of discovery. This woman felt the same way as he did about lines? ‘Yes, I’ll come with yer.’

‘That’s more like it,’ said Madge, a good-natured woman, even if she was a fallen one. A fancy large-brimmed hat crowned her head, and her waisted coat owned a glossy collar of fox fur. She’d bought both items for a song down Petticoat Lane, and they gave her quite a posh look. But she didn’t charge posh prices, her going rate was five bob. ‘Come on, then, but don’t tread on the tramlines.’ She laughed.

‘Tramlines count,’ he said as they stepped off the kerb.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘I’m careful meself about treadin’ on lines.’

‘Well, I never, are yer really?’ said Madge. They crossed the road and she laughed again as they both took care not to tread on the tramlines. They reached the pavement. The road was darker on this side.

‘We can walk easy now,’ he said. ‘Lines don’t count, of course, if you can’t see ’em.’

‘That’s right,’ said Madge, entering Amelia Street with him. ‘My, fancy you bein’ superstitious as well, lovey. Ain’t it a funny old world? Me lodgings ain’t far down
’ere,
except they’re on the other side. Come on.’ She took him across the street and to the house in which she lodged. She fished her key out of her handbag, slipped it into the lock and opened the door. A glowing gas mantle illuminated the passage. Lace curtains framed the approach to the stairs. ‘This way,’ she said, ‘me dear old landlady don’t mind me bringing gents ’ome. She ’ad gentlemen friends ’erself when she was a chorus girl up West.’ Henry Brannigan closed the door and followed her up the stairs to the back room, where a slow-burning coal fire offered a warm cosiness. She took a box of matches from the mantelpiece, struck a match and applied the flame to a gas mantle. The onset of light drove away black shadows, and the room took on an inviting look. A rug of brown wool covered the linoleum in front of the hearth fender. Two leather-upholstered armchairs seemed slightly at odds with a kitchen dresser, but only in a friendly way. ‘This is me livin’ room,’ said Madge. ‘Me bedroom’s on the landing, but we won’t be usin’ that, will we?’