“No, of course not!” Flora realized she sounded impatient and spoke more slowly. “It’s just that he went off the same day as Mrs. Much to stay with a cousin in Dorset that was taken poorly all of a sudden and needed someone to help out.”
“That’s a weight off my mind,” Vivian said somewhat ambiguously, and this time carried the cases up the stairs.
“I’m so sorry they’re that heavy,” Flora apologized. “It’s because I brought half the bottles that were left of Grandpa’s silver polish. It’s silly, because I’ve got his recipe and could always make up some more; but there wasn’t much else that was really his—except for his clothes—because of him never living in his own house.”
“I don’t think you’re foolish about that.” Mr. Gossinger, having put down the suitcases for the last time, was opening the sitting room door and taking a look inside. “Where I think you
are
foolish is in not taking my suggestion about working in the flea market seriously when you need so many things for this flat.”
“I’ve got the money Grandpa left me.”
“You said it wasn’t all that much. Besides,” sitting down on one of the upended cases, Vivian Gossinger looked reflective, “I have an additional brilliant idea. If you got on at one of the stalls that sells silver, you could make a little extra money selling your grandfather’s polish.”
“Yes, I suppose I could do that.” Looking around the empty sitting room, Flora again had the feeling that she had stepped into a magical place, one that could become entirely her own creation. The threadbare curtains stirred at the windows that weren’t sealed very well, but when Flora shivered it wasn’t because of a draft.
“About those chocolate biscuits,” she said.
“Did they make you feel queasy?” Vivian Gossinger got to his feet, overturning both suitcases in the process.
“No, it’s just that I noticed they have the Queen’s Warrant. I’ve read up about it, you see, and I know that’s what it’s called when a product has the words ‘By Appointment’ on the label. You’re going to think what I’m going to say is silly....”
“Try me.”
“Okay, here goes.” Flora took a deep breath. “I’d love more than anything in the world to get the
Queen
to give that warrant for Grandpa’s silver polish. I used to lie awake nights when he was alive dreaming about it, but never saying a word because he’d have said it never could come true. And then a couple of weeks before he died, I wrote a letter to Her Majesty explaining that the product has been for sale for three years, which is one of the requirements, you know.”
Vivian didn’t say anything; he was thinking that he had come to Bethnal Green to ask Flora Hutchins if she really believed that her grandfather’s death had been an accident, and now he could not do it, because only someone really vicious would kill the sparkle in her eyes.
“It’s just a dream,” Flora continued with a rush, “and no, I haven’t heard back from the Queen. But I’m sure when a letter does come Sir Henry will forward it at once,” she said, fetching up a smile. And at that moment someone buzzed the shop door. “My goodness, who on earth can that be?” She started to run down the stairs, but Vivian edged her against the wall and nipped down ahead of her.
“You’re going to have to be careful, especially at night,” he told her, feeling very much as if he had been put in charge of a bouncing puppy who would, with a guileless wag of the tail, welcome in miscreants of all sorts. “You don’t know who could be out there.”
“Getting ready to steal me blind?” Flora, being rather tired, stifled a laugh behind her hand as she crossed the empty shop to stand behind him.
“Or cosh you over the head,” Vivian responded repressively, but forbore to paint an even nastier scenario.
“Cooee, it’s only me!” a cheery voice called through the door. “Mabel’s sister, Edna, from round the corner, with the bed I was supposed to bring over earlier.”
“The what?” Flora said, whereas Vivian merely raised a bemused eyebrow and began somewhat reluctantly to undo the bolts. Both of them fully expected to find themselves face-to-face with a mattress and box spring swaying ominously in the wind and blocking the bearer from view. But what they actually saw when the door swung open was a woman who looked quite a bit like Lady Gossinger, with a roll of bottle green plastic under her arm and a boy of about ten or eleven at her side.
“It’s the blow-up sort,” Edna Smith explained as she stepped over the threshold. “And this here’s my lad Boris, my grandson, that is. Say hello to the lady and gentleman and put a smile on your face, for God’s sake.”
The result of this instruction was to make young Boris look more sullen than ever, but he did attempt to make himself useful by kicking the door shut behind him.
“It’s so nice of you to come round.” Flora went to take the bed, if that was indeed what was tucked under her visitor’s arm, while Vivian instinctively looked around for a chair, or something of the equivalent to offer Mrs. Smith by way of hospitality.
“So my aunt didn’t forget and leave Flora to sleep on the floor her first night here. Thanks most awfully for filling in the breach,” he said.
“You’ll be young Viv ... Mr. Gossinger.”
“That’s me. And may I say it’s a great pleasure to finally meet Aunt Mabel’s only sister.” If Vivian sounded distracted, it was because he couldn’t shake the feeling he was actually looking at her Ladyship done up in fancy dress. The resemblance between the sisters was certainly very strong. They had the same build and puffy facial features. There was, however, a world of difference when it came to his Aunt Mabel’s determined tweediness and this woman’s mock-lizard-skin coat and tarnished-blond coiffure, arranged in loopy curls on top and a French twist at back. And their voices were as different as night from day, Vivian noted. This one made no bones about being a Londoner born and bred.
“It’s a pain in the bum to blow up,” Edna said, watching Flora cradle the bundle of green plastic. “One of my lodgers left it behind. If I remember right, he was the one what drove a lorry and had fallen out with his wife over her having a bit more than a cup of tea with the next-door neighbor. And Boris was on at me afterward to keep the bed in case one of the boys from his class should ever come over to spend the night. Not that he’s holding his breath.” This was said with a fond if somewhat worried look at her grandson. “A snobby lot they are at that school; enough to make you sick, but there it is. There’s always some that thinks they’re better than others.”
Boris stared at the floor without comment, and both Flora and Vivian wondered if the boy was always this sullen or if it was just because he’d been dragged away from the TV, or possibly his homework—although somehow it was difficult to picture Boris being slavishly fond of algebra.
“Brings back a lot of memories, it does, standing here.” Edna Smith was actually clacking around the shop room in high heels that looked dangerously unsuited to a woman of her heavyset build. “Whatever Mabel says different, Mum and Dad gave us the best
childhood ever down here with all the secondhand stuff, mostly junk really, and upstairs, too—even though you couldn’t swing a cat round in the flat without knocking everything off the mantelpiece.”
“I’m sure your parents did a lovely job of bringing you up.” Flora felt the warm glow that always came with meeting a kindred spirit.
“Ever such happy times I had here, helping Mum and Dad when they was too busy behind the counter.” Edna dabbed at her eyes, streaking mascara onto her plump, rouged cheeks. “Most of the time they’d have me pretend to read a picture book, something easy because I was never what you’d call a brain. Anyway it didn’t matter if it was
Puss-in-Boots
because really I was there to keep a lookout to see nobody was nicking anything. Made me feel ever so important, it did. And believe you me,” this was said with a deep chuckle, “it wasn’t the teddy-boy types with their sideburns and leather jackets you had to watch for, not on your life! Often as not it was the little old ladies stinking to high heaven of lavender water that’d be stuffing china ashtrays with ‘A present from Blackpool’ into their pockets.”
Edna Smith interrupted her memories to poke into the pockets of the lizard-skin coat. “Would you believe it, I meant to bring some tea bags so’s you could at least have a nice hot cuppa, but what with one thing and another,” her eyes shifted to her grandson, “I’ve come away without them. Never mind! It won’t take a minute for Boris to nip home. We’re in that block of council flats and he’s got the key in his pocket.”
“I’m not going.” The boy came alive with a fierceness that startled Flora and Vivian, and they reassured him there was no need for him to fetch the tea bags because there was still plenty of orange juice left in the picnic basket so there was no question of anyone dying of thirst. Flora didn’t mention that they didn’t have a
kettle or any cups, in case Edna felt compelled to provide them.
“What’s got into you, talking so rude, Boris!” She looked more upset than seemed strictly necessary.
“I told you I didn’t want to come and see her.” The boy directed a thumb in Flora’s direction and promptly got it slapped down by Grandma.
“It’s dark out there, and raining too, by the sound of it.” Flora hoped this didn’t sound too much like a criticism of Mrs. Smith, but there it was. For some reason, the poor kid looked scared to death. The freckles stood out on his pale face as if he had been stricken with the measles.
“Extremely kind of you to offer, Mrs. Smith,” said Vivian, turning to Flora almost as if they were a couple. “But we both understand Boris’s reluctance to—”
“It’s not because I’m afraid, if that’s what you’re thinking!” The boy’s raised voice quivered and he stuck out his chin in the manner of a boxer welcoming his opponent’s punishing fist. “The dark doesn’t scare me, not one bit. It’s just that I think it’s stupid to go all the way home for some bloody tea bags.”
“There’s no need to go using that word,” scolded his grandmother.
“I only said—"
“And I’ve told you never to say ‘stupid,’ it makes you sound stuck-up. But I suppose that’s what happens when you send them to private schools.” Edna now addressed Flora and Vivian. “Of course, we don’t pay for him to go to there. Boris is on a sort of scholarship. That’s why I have to keep quiet about taking a lodger now and then. Oh, the board of governors, they know I do hairdressing, but if they was to get wind that I make a bit of extra on the side they might stick it to me for at least part of the school fees.”
“I won’t breathe a word,” Flora promised.
“Anyway,” Edna directed this to Vivian, “the gentleman I’ve got at present is a relative of sorts. Some kind of cousin getting on in years, with all the usual aches and pains, and it was no skin off my nose to offer him the back bedroom. I see he gets his meals regular. He’s a nice man, is Mr. Phillips, wouldn’t you say so, Boris?”
“Yes, Grandma.” This was said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, but there was no telling if this was due to Boris’s sour mood, rather than an active dislike of Edna Smith’s male friend. “How about I blow up the bed, that’s what we came for, isn’t it?”
“That’s really kind.” Flora dared not look at Vivian Gossinger for fear she would catch him trying to repress a smile and that would set her off. And really it was unkind to think of laughing even on the inside, because the boy stood there looking as if what he wanted most in the world was a pair of boxing gloves and for someone to kindly volunteer to let him get in a good punch. “How about a chocolate biscuit,” she offered, “before you start on the bed?”
“Thank you very much, miss,” Boris suddenly looked almost cheerful, “but I can’t possibly accept because Grandma here,” he ducked his head in a mock bow in Edna’s direction, “she’s always gone and told me never to take sweets—and I suppose that means biscuits, too—from strangers.”
“More for us, then,” said Vivian with a smile for Flora as he slipped an arm around her shoulders.
“And I’ve had just about enough of your lip, Boris, my lad.” Edna grabbed the blow-up bed from the smirking boy and used it to provide him a series of whacks on the bottom while herding him toward the back of the shop. “Now you’ll take this upstairs to one of the bedrooms if you know what’s good for you. Get it blown up and then sit your bum down on the floor until I’m good and ready to call you back down.”
“Want me to make sure it’s good and bouncy?” Boris stuck his head round the corner for an elaborate wink at Vivian before a series of thuds and thumps informed those left below that the boy was playing hopscotch on his way up the stairs.
“I’m too old for this game.” Edna took off her high heels, tucked them under her arm, and hobbled across the room to rest her weary back against the shop counter. “Being a grandmother, is what I mean. But what was I to do but take him in when his mum— that’s my daughter Lisa—did a bunk? And his dad was never in the picture from day one.”
“Poor Boris.” Flora eased out from the comfort of Vivian’s arm and went to stand by the beleaguered older woman’s side. “I was so lucky ...” She was about to say this was because she’d had a grandfather who’d made up in the most loving and magical sort of way for her not having parents. But this would not have been exactly tactful, considering Edna had set aside the shoes as if even they were an insupportable burden for someone whose spirit had been broken by an eleven-year-old boy.
Besides, Flora found herself wondering, with a lump in her throat, whether she hadn’t been at times more of a pain than a blessing. Had Grandpa always told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth when he used to tell her she was the light of an old man’s life? What about the time she’d lied about the man climbing through her bedroom window and muddling everything up, after she had just put the place to rights as instructed?
Looking back, she counted herself extremely fortunate that hadn’t been the end of Grandpa then and there. He might have had a heart attack.... The lump in her throat broke apart, exploding into particles of misery that flooded through her from head to toe. As it was, Grandpa must have spent many a sleepless night worrying that she would go from one wicked lie to the next until she ended up as some sort of confidence trickster.