On Mother Brown's Doorstep (38 page)

‘All right, kitten. Speak to your Uncle Ned. I don’t think he’ll be dancing this one. Ask him to take you to the men’s cloakroom, and then you can speak to the policeman. Uncle Ned will want to know what it’s all about. Tell him to come and see me.’

‘Good idea, Daddy, ever such a good idea,’ said Rosie, and dashed to find Lizzy’s husband.

Boots remained where he was, outside the door of the ladies’ cloakroom. While the dance was on, the ladies would stay away, he hoped. He thought about Ponsonby. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to have slipped into the Institute this morning, while the caterers had the place opened up. And then to print ‘OUT OF ORDER’ in chalk on a cubicle door before locking himself in. He’d been prepared to stay there all day, waiting and hoping. Which meant it was Rosie he was after. A young girl. But how would he have known of her entry?

The toy periscope!

Boots knew that the wall dividing the two men’s cubicles did not reach the ceiling. There was a foot-high gap. Exactly how disgusting could a sadistic man get?

Ned arrived.

‘What’s up, Boots?’

Boots told him. Ned took the details in with a soft whistle.

‘Is the cubicle the one against the outside wall?’ he asked. ‘If so, and if it’s like the men’s, there’ll be a window. A small one, but probably no smaller than the one he climbed through in the police station. The moment
he
suspects something, he’ll be after worming his way out. That’ll land him in the alley. Leave the alley to me, Boots. You stay here.’

Ned met two constables on his way through to the back door. He nodded to them. Rosie was beside the first policeman, looking a little pent-up.

‘No worries, Rosie, all under control,’ said Ned reassuringly and carried on to the alley. Rosie led the policemen to the cloakroom, where Boots stood with his back to the door. They could hear the band and the sounds of dancers filling the hall with rousing revelry.

Boots explained briefly but concisely to the uniformed men.

‘Right, got you, sir,’ said one constable, ‘he might be in there or he might not.’

‘He’s in there,’ said Boots. ‘I’ll prove it. Rosie love, go and talk to Annabelle.’

‘Must I?’ said Rosie.

‘Off you go, kitten.’

Rosie went, but hardly knew how she was going to keep quiet about what was happening.

Boots opened the door of the cloakroom. The cubicles were on the left, facing him, a row of clothes pegs on the right. The policemen watched from the doorway. He opened the door of the vacant cubicle in noisy fashion, then stood back a little and kept his eyes on the top of the dividing wall. The gap was wide enough for a man as slim as Ponsonby to worm through, to fall headlong on to his victim, or, if no-one else was in the cloakroom, to catch her when she left the cubicle. He heard the faintest of sounds, and the next moment the square open head of a cardboard periscope appeared. It angled, and Boots knew its mirror could pick up a vision of head and shoulders, the head and shoulders of anyone using the seat. That would
be
enough. Ponsonby had waited all this time, certain of course that Rosie would be in his sights eventually. The mirror picked up nothing now. It turned, stayed still for a brief second and then vanished. Boots gestured to the policemen, then turned the handle of the door marked ‘OUT OF ORDER’. It was locked, of course. The two policemen were in. There was the noise of a window frame vibrating. Facing each other, shoulders pointing at the cubicle door, the policeman hit it together, and with all the force they could muster. The door crashed open at a moment when the band and the dancers reached the noisy crescendo of the finale.

Ponsonby was standing on the closed lavatory seat, his socked feet on tiptoe, his head already through the window, eyes staring down at the shadowy figure of Ned, who had a dustbin lid in his hand. Ponsonby’s elastic-sided boots, tied together, were hanging around his neck. The policemen hauled him down, pinned him and handcuffed him.

‘Ruffians, ruffians!’ hissed Mr Ponsonby. ‘What a day, what a terrible day.’

Boots saw the intended instrument of Rosie’s death, a shiny new leather bootlace. It was wound around the man’s left wrist, one end loose and dangling.

Dear God, his Rosie.

The policemen took the demented man out through the back door, much to the gaping astonishment of a caterers’ assistant.

‘Boots dear, I don’t want to complain,’ said Aunt Victoria ten minutes later. The wedding party was resting on its laurels, using an interval to gather itself for the last number of the evening and waitresses bringing the last orders for the free drinks. Boots, Rosie and Ned alone
knew
what had taken place in the out-of-sight ladies’ cloakroom.

‘Complain? I’m sure you don’t, Aunt Victoria,’ said Boots, Rosie beside him.

‘Well, not at Sammy’s wedding Boots dear,’ said Aunt Victoria, ‘but would you believe, someone’s gone and smashed in that door that was out of order.’

‘Yes, I think other people are talking about it,’ said Boots. ‘I put it down as the act of some desperate woman. Good idea for none of us to complain, Aunt Victoria. It’ll only embarrass the woman, whoever she was.’

A hand squeezed his, and he looked down into the moistly shining eyes of Rosie.

She swallowed, then said, ‘I think everyone’s getting ready for the knees-up, Daddy.’

‘Not before time,’ said Boots.

In the flat above the shop in the New Kent Road, Henry Brannigan cleared his throat.

‘It’s been a real ’omely evenin’ with yer, Madge,’ he said.

‘You’ve been very welcome, Henry,’ said Madge. ‘You’re ’omely yerself, and I know you’ve got a soft ’eart under that waistcoat of yours.’

‘I’ve been thinkin’.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Yer a warm woman, Madge, and yer fond of kids. You’d like to ’ave that orphanage girl for yer own, but you can’t because you ain’t married. Well, Madge, I’ll marry yer if yer’ll ’ave me, and give yer a real ’ome where we can bring the girl up decent an’ proper.’

Madge stared at him.

‘Henry, you mean that, you’ll marry me? After what I’ve been?’

‘It ain’t what you’ve been, Madge, it’s what you are. But
I
reckon we’d better leave Walworth an’ make our ’ome in Peckham, say.’

‘Henry, you can put a ring on me finger any time you like,’ said Madge, ‘and I won’t let yer down, ever. And you can stay the night, if you want.’

‘Your kind offer is appreciated, Madge, but I ’ope it won’t offend yer if I say no. I’m a bit of what they call conservatyve, and I like doin’ things proper. I’ll wait till we’re married, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Well, I’d just like to get married quick, Henry.’

‘Real quick, Madge?’

‘I’m a woman, Henry, and you’re a man.’

The centre of the hall was clear, the band at the ready on the stage. Pianist, accordion-player and drummer all had grins on their faces. Susie and Sammy advanced amid loud and encouraging cheers. Sammy looked electric with anticipation. Susie, still in soft shimmering white, smiled.

‘Ready, Sammy?’

‘Ready, Susie.’

‘Here we go, then,’ said Susie, and hitched her gown and underskirt. Her silvery stockings flashed.

The band launched itself into the music everyone had been waiting for, and Susie and Sammy began to set the example for all to follow. The whole company provided the vocal accompaniment.

‘
Knees up, Mother Brown, knees up, Mother Brown
,

Under the table you must go
,

Ee-i-ee-i-addy-oh!
’

If I catch you bending, I’ll saw your legs right off!

Don’t get the breeze up
,

Just get your knees up!

Knees up, Mother Brown!
’

Up went Susie’s knees, one after the other, and up went
Sammy
’s. Into the heart of the cockney ritual came their families, friends and neighbours. In came Will and Annie, Will willing to chance it, his young lady willing to be with him through thick and thin, to help him lay the ogre of asthma. In came Freddy and Cassie, Sally and Ronnie. In came Lizzy and Ned, Annabelle, Bobby, Emma and toddler Edward. In came Mr Finch, bringing Chinese Lady with him. In came Boots, Emily, Rosie and Tim, followed by Tommy, Vi, Aunt Victoria and Uncle Tom. In came Gertie and Bert and all the old friends and neighbours of Caulfield Place. Rachel and Mr Greenberg entered the lists, so did the office girls and, of course, Mr Brown with his beaming old Dutch, Mother Brown herself.

‘
Knees up, Mother Brown, knees up, Mother Brown
…’

Skirts and dresses whisked and flew, the floor vibrated and frisky quips alternated with shrieks of laughter.

‘Mind me eye, Susie.’

‘I know where both your eyes are, Sammy Adams.’

‘
Under the table you must go
,

Ee-i-ee-i-addy-oh!

‘Get ’em up, Annie.’

‘What, higher, Will Brown?’

‘Gawd save us, Annie, no higher, or I’ll have an attack – a heart attack.’

‘
If I catch you bending, I’ll saw your legs right off!
’

‘’Ere, watch it, Cassie, yer nearly showin’ yer knickers.’

‘Freddy, did yer know Queen Mary wears royal blue ones? And you better find me cat after this, or me dad’ll wallop yer.’

‘
Don’t get the breeze up, just get your knees up!
’

‘My life, Rachel, vhat’s all this?’

‘Me remarkable legs, Eli. Get yours up, old love, it’s Mother Brown’s night.’

‘
Knees up, Mother Brown!
’

‘Get ’em up, Vi.’

‘Not likely, Tommy Adams, there’s two of me.’

‘
Just get your knees up, knees up, Mother Brown!
’

‘What’s happened to your knees, Maisie? Where are they?’

‘Where they should be, Edwin Finch, hidin’ under me skirt.’

‘
Under the table you must go, ee-i-ee-i-addy-oh!
’

‘Steady as you go, Em.’

‘I’ll last out, Boots, you see if I don’t.’

It went on and on, towards the time that heralded the finish of the celebrations, half-past ten. Faces shone and legs kicked. Susie was flushed, blue eyes entranced. Sammy was grinning all over. Boots was watching Emily, whose nervous energy showed in the sparkling glitter of her eyes. But it went from her, suddenly, just as the final notes were played, and there was a look of dismay on her face as she sagged. Boots was beside her at once, one arm around her, a strong arm. She looked up at him, her eyes dizzy.

‘Thanks, lovey,’ she said huskily, ‘but I lasted out, didn’t I? Hold me, Boots, it’s been a lovely fam’ly weddin’.’

Aunt Victoria’s voice was heard.

‘I don’t want to complain, but who let that mangy-lookin’ cat in?’

A month later, Polly Simms, standing on the verandah of a rambling bungalow in Kenya, looked out over the brick-red earth and wondered why love would not go away.

Mary Jane Staples
was born, bred and educated in Walworth, and is the author of many bestselling novels, including the ever-popular cockney sagas featuring the Adams family.

Down Lambeth Way

Our Emily

King of Camberwell

A Family Affair

Missing Person

Pride of Walworth

Echoes of Yesterday

The Young Ones

The Camberwell Raid

The Last Summer

The Family at War

Fire Over London

Churchill's People

Bright Day, Dark Night

Tomorrow is Another Day

The Way Ahead

Year of Victory

The Homecoming

Sons and Daughters

Appointment at the Palace

Changing Times

Spreading Wings

Family Fortunes

A Girl Next Door

Ups and Downs

Out of the Shadows

A Sign of the Times

The Soldier's Girl

 

Two for Three Farthings

The Lodger

Rising Summer

The Pearly Queen

Sergeant Joe

The Trap

The Ghost of Whitechapel

Escape to London

The Price of Freedom

A Wartime Marriage

Katernia's Secret

The Summer Day is Done

The Longest Winter

Natasha's Dream

Nurse Anna's War

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ON MOTHER BROWN’S DOORSTEP

A CORGI BOOK : 9780552139755
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781446488270

First publication in Great Britain

PRINTING HISTORY

Corgi edition published 1993

7 9 10 8

Copyright © Mary Jane Staples 1992

The right of Mary Jane Staples to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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