The Strange Story of Linda Lee (2 page)

The leisurely train meandered to a halt. Linda made a dash for the nearest carriage, praying as she ran across the platform that her father’s view of her was blocked by some intervening buildings. But it was certain
that he would describe her to the porter and learn that she was on the train. Her only hope now lay in his failing to find which carriage she had got into before the train moved off.

Seizing the handle of the carriage door she wrenched it open and pushed her suitcase in along the floor. As she did so she threw a glance over her shoulder. Her heart missed a beat. Her father had just come through the barrier, but he was looking in the opposite direction. Jumping into the carriage, she slammed the door behind her, heaved her suitcase up on to the rack, then flung herself down in the far corner. Huddling back into it, she prayed frantically for the train to start.

The only other occupant of the carriage was a rather plump man of medium height. He had neither beard nor whiskers, but smoothly-brushed greying hair, and was obviously of a much older generation.

Suddenly Linda caught the sound of pounding feet. Next moment her father appeared outside the carriage window. It flashed on her that he must have glimpsed her at the moment she had boarded the train. He was carrying his big blackthorn stick, that he always took with him when he went to the pub on Sundays. Purple in the face from rage, and his thirty-yard dash along the platform to catch her, he waved the stick and bellowed:

‘Come art of there, you bitch! Tryin’ ter do the dirty on me an’ yer Ma! I’ll learn yer! Come art, or I’ll break me stick across yer bottom.’

Petrified, Linda crouched back in her corner. She knew that even if she obeyed him, when he got her back to the house, he would half-kill her. A whistle blew. Her father grabbed the handle of the carriage door to pull it open. Linda threw a despairing glance at the middle-aged man opposite her, wondering, if she
appealed to him, whether he would intervene when her father started to drag her from the carriage. But he was not looking at her. When she jumped in he had been reading a book. Now he had laid it down and was staring out of the window at her father.

As Bill Lee was grasping his stick in his right hand, he had made the mistake of trying to open the door with his left. The handle was a little stiff and it failed to turn. With a curse, he transferred his stick from one hand to the other. At that moment the train began to move. With his right hand he again seized the handle. It turned but pulled him along with it. He began to run. The speed of the train increased, preventing him from pulling the door open. In the distance the angry shouts of the porter could be heard. Suddenly Bill Lee stumbled. The door handle was wrenched from his grasp. Another moment and he had disappeared from Linda’s view. A great sigh of relief escaped her and, after a few minutes, the beating of her heart slowed down.

When she had sufficiently recovered to take stock of her companion, she put him down as about fifty. He had been studying her with interest out of kindly hazel eyes; but as soon as their glances met, he quickly looked away and resumed reading his book. The hand that held it was slim, long-fingered, pale pink and carefully manicured. Instinctively, Linda hid her own hands in her jacket pockets. They were not ugly, but rough from hard work, and, strive as she would, she could never quite succeed in getting all the dirt from under her nails. She had also taken in the fact that the man’s clothes were unostentatious but of fine material and well cut.

Her nerves now at rest, and having no book to read, she amused herself by speculating about him. He had
plump, slightly-reddish cheeks, which suggested a love of good living. His mouth was thin, but had laughter lines at the corners. His nose was on the small side and high-bridged. His most striking feature was his broad, smooth forehead, and it was that which made Linda think that he was probably a professor or an artist.

While she had been getting her breath back and settling down, he had had ample time to form an impression of her. Obviously a country girl, he decided. No make-up, other than a touch of lipstick, and healthy, rosy cheeks from leading an open-air life. A fine, Junoesque creature, who, given ample money for clothes and beauty treatments, could have made men’s heads turn in any de luxe restaurant. The halo of curling bronze hair was a fine example of what has been termed ‘woman’s crowning glory’; the big golden-brown eyes, with very clear whites and long lashes under beautifully arched eyebrows, were truly splendid; and the firm mouth, with its very full underlip, indicated a forceful, determined personality. But the cheap clothes, scruffed shoes and awful bulging suitcase, all revealed that the girl came from a poor home; so she was probably lacking in all but a rudimentary education and had in her beautiful head only an apology for a brain. He had, for a few moments, been acutely interested in the attempt by the coarse-looking, red-faced man to get her to leave the train; but it was no affair of his. With that casual summary the gentleman sitting opposite Linda dismissed her from his mind and concentrated on his book.

For half an hour the train meandered on, stopping briefly at two stations. Then the door of the compartment was opened by the ticket collector, with the usual request.

Linda’s companion produced his ticket and it was duly clipped. She opened her bag and handed the man hers. After a glance, he said, ‘Sorry, Miss. This is a second, and you’re travelling first.’ Then he produced his pad and added, ‘I’ll have to charge you excess. One pound six shillings please.’

In her panic, Linda had not noticed the class of the carriage into which she had jumped. Now she had let herself in for spending money she could ill afford. On the previous morning she had drawn all her savings out of her Post Office account. They amounted to little more than thirty pounds; but she had decided that it would be ample to keep her in a modest boarding house in London until she found a job.

Diving again into her bag, she ignored her purse, knowing that after buying her ticket it contained only a few shillings. Quickly she hunted for the wallet she had bought to hold her savings. Next moment she was frantically turning the things in the bag over and over. But the wallet was not there.

Then the reason why it was missing came back to her. The wallet had been lying on her dressing table. She had been about to put it in her bag when her mother came into the room. In the scene that followed, she had forgotten all about it and, when dashing for the door, left it there.

Horrified, she realised the awful truth. She was on her way to London with barely enough money to buy herself a meal, let alone a bed.

Linda’s golden-brown eyes were wide with fright and apprehension. Her mouth dropped open, then she stammered, ‘I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ter travel first. Couldn’t I move to a second-class compartment?’

The elderly collector shook his head. ‘First-class coaches are clearly marked, Miss. You couldn’t have failed to see the yellow line.’

‘But I did. I promise. I was in an awful hurry.’

‘That’s as may be. But you’re travelling first, and I ‘ave ter abide by the rules. One pound six shillings please.’

Linda was almost in tears. In her ignorance she had awful visions of being sent to prison for defrauding British Railways. Miserably she burst out, ‘But I can’t pay. I haven’t got the money. I left me notecase on the dressing table.’

The well-groomed, middle-aged man opposite her had put down his book. Taking his wallet from his pocket, he said, ‘That is the sort of thing that might happen to anyone. You must allow me to lend you the excess fare.’

‘That’s terrible good of you.’ Linda swallowed hard. ‘But … but I may not be able to pay you back.’

Handing two notes to the collector, her rescuer gave a quiet laugh. ‘What refreshing honesty. It is as good as a promise that you will when you can afford to, and I’m in no hurry for the money.’

The collector scribbled a receipt. Handing it to Linda, he closed the door and went off down the corridor. After a moment, she said, ‘Thank you, Sir. I’m that grateful. Cross me heart, I am.’

Her companion smiled again, produced a visiting card and gave it to her. ‘There’s my name and address. When you are really in the money, you can send me a cheque.’

The card read,
Roland Frobisher, 103 Park Side West, London, N.W.I
., and in the bottom right-hand corner,
St. James’s
. The latter puzzled her, as she had no idea that it was the name of a club. Returning his smile, she said, ‘More likely it’ll be a postal order. Only businesses and rich people has bank accounts, an’ there’s not much chance of me becoming rich all of a sudden. When I get to London I haven’t even got a job to go to.’

‘No doubt you’ll soon find one.’

‘Hope ter goodness I do! By leaving me notecase behind I’ve landed meself in an awful mess.’

‘Surely your—er—father or mother will post it on to you?’

Linda shook her head and again tears came into her eyes. ‘Ma might,’ she gulped. ‘That’s if she don’t let on to Pa that I forgot it. If she does, he won’t let her. That was him you saw tryin’ to get the door open. He’s mad as hell at me. You see, I’ve run away.’

A kindly smile again lit Frobisher’s plump face. ‘I guessed that might be the case. So you are going to the great, big, wicked city to make your fortune, eh?’

‘Oh, go on! You’re kidding,’ Linda retorted. ‘Dick
Whittington and them sort only happen in fairy-tales. All I’m after is a chance ter lead a happier life.’

At that moment a steward passed down the corridor, calling out, ‘First service. First service.’

Frobisher stood up, put his book into his suitcase and said, ‘Before starting on any adventure it is always wise to have a good, sustaining meal. You must be my guest for dinner.’

Linda hesitated only for a moment; but she had a hearty appetite and had left without cutting the sandwiches she had meant to bring with her. ‘You are nice, you really are,’ she said in a small voice, and, when he held the door open for her, preceded him to the restaurant car.

Although Frobisher was not a tall or impressive figure, he had the quiet, self-confident manner that always begets good service. The moment the head steward caught sight of him, he hurried forward, gave them a table for two and produced both the menu and the wine list.

‘Sherry?’ asked Linda’s host, ‘or something with gin in it?’

She shook her head. ‘I never touch spirits. Fact is, I hardly ever drink at all. But I’d like a sherry. It’ll cheer me up.’

‘A dry sherry then, and a glass of hock to follow won’t do you any harm.’ Frobisher ordered ham and eggs for himself, and Linda said she would have the set meal. Then, to encourage her to talk about herself, he said:

‘Now I’d better tell you a little about the kind of chap I am. I’m a scientist of sorts. I’m fortunate in having a certain amount of money and I don’t like being tied down. By keeping my freedom, I can go abroad whenever
I wish. But now and again the back-room boys call me in to help on special problems, and that suits me because I’d hate to lead an entirely idle life. I’m married, but my wife is no longer living with me. I have a stepdaughter who is also married, but no children of my own. I’ve a comfortable house overlooking Regent’s Park, and I belong to a Club where I lunch fairly frequently, and another where I play bridge occasionally. So you see, although I don’t lead an exciting life, it is a very pleasant one.’

‘You’re lucky,’ Linda remarked seriously. ‘Ever so lucky. They say one half of the world don’t know how the other half lives, an’ I’m sure that’s true. A gentleman so fortunate as you just couldn’t picture the God-awful sort of life I’ve led up to now.’

‘Try me and see,’ he smiled.

‘Here goes, then. I haven’t told you me name yet. It’s Linda Lee; Pa is a market gardener. Not a grand one with acres of glass and half a dozen men workin’ for him. He’s what they call a smallholder. We’ve got three and a half acres. It’s mostly tulips. They’re our main crop, but we’ve two hothouses an’ several rows of Dutch lights. In them we grow tomatoes, lettuces and bedding plants that we can sell local before the tulips come on. Pa works the place and takes the stuff to market. The only help he has is Ma and meself. But a good part of her time goes in shopping, cooking and keeping the house decent.

‘When people eat vegetables and enjoy the flowers they buy they never think about the grind it is for other people to grow them. A market garden’s not like a factory, where the workers get there at eight o’clock and knock off at five. There’s no union hours and no weekends off either. Everything’s got ter be watered,
mostly twice a day. While each crop is growin’, it has ter be hoed between the rows. Soon as it’s over, the ground has to be dug afresh an’ manured before the new crop’s planted. The weather must be watched all the time and someone always there to open or shut the ventilation to the houses. The plants growin’ in them must be sprayed. When they’ve finished bearing, the houses have ter be disinfected and all the pots washed so as they can be used again. It never stops, never. Diggin’, to hoein’, stakin’, tyin’-in, prunin’, waterin’, pickin’, packin’, and bunchin’ for market, day in day out, from dawn to dusk, with hardly an hour off to call your own. That’s the life I’ve led ever since I was old enough ter be taken away from school.’

Frobisher shook his head sadly. ‘You’re right. In my time I must have spent hundreds of pounds on flowers, but the labour that goes into growing them has never once crossed my mind. You poor child. I don’t wonder you have run away.’

‘It weren’t so much the work that got me down,’ Linda went on. ‘Pa hardly ever let me have an evening off, because there were always bills to be sent out, keepin’ the books up-to-date, orderin’ bulbs an’ seeds, writin’ labels and other chores to be done. I didn’t have no chance to enjoy meself like other girls, and I thought meself lucky if I could get to a cinema or a village hop ‘bout once in ten days. It weren’t quite so bad when Sid was still at home, but since he ‘opped it, often I’ve been so tired nights that on floppin’ inter bed I could have slept the clock round.’