Missing Person (18 page)

Chinese Lady sat at the garden table outside the kitchen, keeping an eye on the little ones sitting with her. There were four of them, Alice and David, children of Tommy and Vi, together with Daniel and infant Bess, children of Sammy and Susie. Lizzy and Ned’s offspring, Annabelle, Bobby, Emma and Edward, were all joining in the cricket, and so, of course, were Rosie and Tim, the beloved of Boots. Yes, he can be as airy-fairy as he likes, thought Chinese Lady, but that only oldest son of mine has got the kind of fatherly weakness for his son and daughter that does him credit. Fatherly weakness that’s strong in a man is highly creditable, it’s put there by God. Emily likes him for it, which she should, because he gives them so much of his time. Mind, he’s still like a music hall comic sometimes. I don’t know where he gets it from, not from me, nor his late dad. The war ought to have cured him, specially when he was blinded, but it didn’t. It’s ingrained, that’s what it is. Man and boy, he’s always said things that never mean what a body thinks they do. Still, he’s been a good husband to Emily, and if I know him like I should he won’t make a fool of himself over Miss Polly Simms, nor over any other woman that gives him looks, like Mrs Fletcher next door. If he ever did, I’d make him wish he’d never been born.

The cricket was chaotic. Polly, her stumps spreadeagled by a wicked ball from Boots, was indulging a tantrum, yelling at him that fire and brimstone were too good for a man who thought he was Mars and delivered thunderbolts. He’s always doing that to me, said Lizzy. Oh, what a shame, said Rosie, but you’re still out, Aunt Polly. All the young people called her Aunt Polly now. I don’t mind being
out
, said Polly, but I do mind being nearly broken in half by your fiend of a father, Rosie. Emily old thing, she said, can’t you get your husband to stop thinking he’s the god of war? Emily, who always watched Polly like a hawk, but had never caught her putting a foot wrong, said she might as well talk to her mangle as to Boots.

Polly, willowy in a white shirt-blouse and cream skirt, laughed. Once engaged in garden cricket with these families, she became as boisterous as they always were. She had never known people with so much enthusiasm for life and so much affinity with each other. Their origins were cockney, and the cockney nuances in the speech of some of them were frequently perceptible. With others, like Tommy and Vi, unaffected cockney accents still prevailed. Yet Polly was drawn to the whole brood as if by a magnet, their rousing enjoyment of these occasions irrepressible and infectious. Vivacious herself, she quickly became one of them. And she would have been one of them in every sense if she stood in Emily’s place.

‘Would someone like to tell me if Polly’s out or not out?’ enquired Boots.

‘Out!’ yelled Tim, who was in his dad’s team.

‘Not out!’ yelled all the young people who were in Polly’s team.

‘Never mind, sports, I’m out,’ said Polly, relinquishing the bat to Lizzy.

‘Boots,’ said gentle Vi, ‘don’t you think you ought to bowl underarm to all the ladies?’

‘Ladies?’ said Sammy. ‘What ladies?’

‘Uncle Sammy,’ said Rosie, ‘Nana’s listening to you.’

‘So am I,’ said Susie, her hair the colour of golden corn in the bright light of the June sun.

‘I think I tripped up,’ said Sammy. ‘Unconscious, like. All right, Boots, bowl underarm to all the ladies.’

‘If he bowls underarm to me,’ said Lizzy, ‘I’ll knock him silly for insultin’ me.’ Lizzy was, of course, a batsman of renown.

‘There you are, Boots,’ called Ned, ‘that’s no lady, that’s my wife.’

The young ones yelled with laughter.

‘Ned Somers,’ called Chinese Lady, ‘I heard that.’

‘Sorry, old lady,’ said Ned, ‘I had one of Sammy’s unconscious moments.’

‘I’ll see to you when I get you home, Ned Somers,’ said Lizzy. ‘Now, come on, Boots, stop standin’ about lookin’ like Lord Muck waitin’ for the muffin man. Bowl up.’

Boots, in cricket shirt and flannels, hair a little ruffled from exercise, wore his usual good-humoured expression.

‘Sure I’m not interrupting the conversation?’ he said.

‘Worse than that, Daddy,’ said Rosie, ‘you’re holding up the cricket.’

‘Hit him, someone,’ said Lizzy.

Boots laughed, and Polly thought, burning arrows of fire, am I never going to have that man? And Rosie thought, oh, I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone more than Nana’s only oldest son.

He bowled to Lizzy and she cracked the ball to the far corner of the garden.

‘Good shot, Lizzy,’ smiled Mr Finch, fielding at long-stop, not far from the kitchen.

‘Phone’s ringing, Grandpa, phone’s ringing,’ called young Alice.

‘Coming,’ said Mr Finch, and deserted his post to enter the house through the kitchen. With the place
empty
of people, the ringing had a loud and demanding note. In the hall, a moment of suspicion made him hesitate. Then he picked the phone up and lifted the receiver.

‘Yes, hello?’ he said.

‘Oh, hello, I think that’s you, Mr Finch,’ said Rachel from the other end of the line.

‘And I think that’s Rachel,’ he said. Her voice always had a distinctive musical element.

‘Yes. How’s the family?’

‘Playing cricket in the garden,’ said Mr Finch.

‘My life, they’ll never grow up,’ said Rachel.

‘We’re all trying not to.’

‘So am I,’ said Rachel. ‘Is Boots there, can he be torn from his cricket?’

‘I think so,’ said Mr Finch.

‘Is Sammy there?’

‘Yes, with his family.’

‘Well, dear Mr Finch, this is actually a business call that’s just between me and Boots for the moment, even if it is your Sabbath.’

‘I see. Point taken, Rachel. Hold the line.’ Mr Finch went back through the kitchen and called to Boots from the door.

‘Can you spare a moment, Boots?’

‘Only too pleased,’ said Boots, ‘I’ve just been hit for two sixes by my lady sister.’

‘Some lady,’ said Bobby, ‘that’s my dad’s wife.’

‘Em’ly, smack that boy’s bottom,’ said Lizzy.

‘Why, what’ve I said?’ asked Bobby.

‘Who’s on the line?’ asked Boots of his stepfather as he entered the kitchen.

‘Rachel,’ smiled Mr Finch. ‘A business call.’

‘The lady’s a charmer,’ said Boots, and went through to the hall. He picked up the phone. ‘Rachel?’

‘Hello, Boots lovey, d’you mind that it’s Sunday?’

‘Not a bit. I like Sundays.’

‘I mean phoning you on a Sunday.’

‘I like that too,’ said Boots.

‘There’s a sweetie,’ said Rachel. ‘I wanted to give you a report on what I’ve found out so far concerning Johnson’s. There are three directors, John Johnson and Frank Johnson, brothers, and Rolf Berger. They own all the shares between them. But they’re not doing very good business, their last two balance sheets show a loss. You said your own company’s only making a small profit, so what’s the point of Johnson’s buying you out?’

‘Ask me another,’ said Boots.

‘I wasn’t actually asking,’ said Rachel, ‘I was being rhetorical.’

‘Rhetorical? Don’t use that word in front of Chinese Lady,’ said Boots, ‘she’ll think you’ve picked up some naughty French. I put it down to your finishing school.’

‘Yes, ain’t I educated, ducky?’ said Rachel. ‘But you can talk, after what your school did for you. I’ve heard about all the kids calling you Lord Muck. Anyway, back to business, as I don’t want to keep you from your cricket. And I only want to say I’m going to call on some of Johnson’s yards tomorrow to see what they’ve got on offer and at what prices.’

‘This is what I call an act of faithful friendship,’ said Boots.

‘It’s a loving friendship, ain’t it?’ said Rachel, and her laughter purred over the line.

‘I like that too,’ said Boots, and they spoke their goodbyes.

Emily asked who’d been on the phone, and Boots said a faithful friend.

‘One of your old Army mates?’ asked Emily, with the cricket still going on.

‘No, a different kind of old mate,’ said Boots. ‘Rachel Goodman,’ he murmured.

‘Am I goin’ to have to hit you with something?’

‘Well, Em old love, I’ll let you know if I think you should.’

‘Boots, you’re sly, you are.’

‘Is that good or bad, Em?’

‘Wicked, mostly,’ said Emily.

The cricket ended, and Chinese Lady made everyone sit down for tea in the garden. It was a chattering tea, every tongue adept at wagging, and the garden echoed to lifted voices, laughter, giggles and arguments. Polly sat with Lizzy and her family. She had always got on well with Lizzy, and she liked Ned. He too was an old soldier.

After tea, when the lowering sun brought a touch of balmy evening to the garden and the young ones were chasing about, Polly sauntered across to the shed.

‘Aunt Polly, what d’you want in the shed?’ called Tim.

‘I’ve got an appointment,’ called Polly.

‘Who with?’ asked Annabelle.

‘With the lawn mower,’ said Polly, which tickled some of the young and slightly mystified some of the grown-ups.

It made Boots smile.

SAMMY, ON HIS
way to the firm’s one and only shop in the West End – Oxford Street, to be precise – entered a turning off Waterloo Road and pulled up outside the yard belonging to Eli Greenberg, the well-known rag-and-bone merchant who was also well thought of. Sammy got out of his car and Mr Greenberg came out of the green-painted shed that served as his office. His yard, much of it under cover, contained mountains of household articles, from frying-pans to bedsteads. He wore, as usual, a round black hat, green with age and a long serge overcoat with capacious pockets. His curling beard, flecked with grey, received a caress from his hand as he sighted Sammy.

‘Sammy, my poy, vhat a pleasure, ain’t it?’

‘I ain’t denyin’ it, Eli, old cock,’ said Sammy, and shook hands with his old friend who had always been an invaluable business help. ‘Seeing I was on my way to our Oxford Street emporium, I thought I’d pop in and see how you were.’

Mr Greenberg, now a married man with three healthy stepsons, said ‘Vell might you enquire, Sammy, vell you might. Ain’t my good vife’s boys eatin’ me out of house and home?’

‘It’s hard, Eli, I know, and I daresay it hurts as well,’ said Sammy, ‘but what’s a hole in your pocket when there’s a good wife warmin’ your bed and doin’ your washin’ for you?’

‘True, Sammy, true, consolations ain’t to be sniffed at,’ said Mr Greenberg, ‘but the emptying of a poor man’s pocket is a sad thing.’

‘Granted,’ said Sammy, ‘but as long as we’ve both got enough to keep the bailiffs from cleaning us out, there’s no point in committin’ suicide.’

‘Vell, there’s alvays friendship, my poy, even if it does cost money sometimes. Now, vhile you’re here and have a few minutes to spare, come into my office and I vill speak to you about if I should beggar my poor self by buying a small brewery to be run by Hannah’s sons.’

‘That kind of discussion is meat and drink, Eli,’ said Sammy, ‘and I wouldn’t be the bloke I am if I didn’t participate with a willing heart and without chargin’ you for me advice.’

‘Ain’t that music to my ears, Sammy, vhen ve both know some varm hearts come expensive?’

‘I concur, Eli. I also agree. Lead the way.’

They’ve forgotten to let the blind up, thought Tilly, at a little after ten. Does that woman think I’m sitting here to get a look at her private bedroom life during daytime? Or is she at a bottle?

Tilly put that unneighbourly thought out of her mind, and, seated at her machine, absorbed herself in her dressmaking. The blind at the window facing her across the adjoining back yards stayed down.

Downstairs, Cassie was talking to her charges. She was going to take them out, round to her own home again, and then for a walk, having discovered they couldn’t do as much damage out of doors as when they were in. She’d bring them back for their midday meal, and when they’d had that she was going to take them to Mrs Tompkins across the street. Their dad
had
arranged for Mrs Tompkins to keep a kind eye on them for the afternoon.

‘All right?’ she said.

‘We don’t mind,’ said Bubbles.

‘Ev’ryone looks after us a bit,’ said Penny-Farving.

‘Except our muvver,’ said Bubbles.

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ said Cassie, ‘it’s a shame she can’t get ’ome more often.’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Penny-Farving.

‘We don’t like ’er comin’ home,’ said Bubbles.

‘She shouts at our dad,’ said Penny-Farving.

‘Oh, poor woman,’ said Cassie. ‘Never mind, you can come home with me now, but first we’ll go and knock at the ’ouse of the lady next door. You’ve seen my parrot lots, but you ’aven’t seen Mrs ’Arper’s, and she just might let you this mornin’. Come on.’

When Mrs Harper answered Cassie’s knock, her eyes alighted immediately on Bubbles and Penny-Farving.

‘What’re them little terrors doin’ on me doorstep?’ she asked.

‘Oh, they’re quite nice little girls really, Mrs ’Arper,’ said Cassie in her blithe way, ‘and they’d like it ever so much if they could come in and see Percy.’

‘Oh, they would, would they?’ said Mrs Harper, florid face looking a bit sour. ‘First thing them nice little girls ’ud do would be to turn ’is cage upside-down.’

‘Oh, they wouldn’t do that, Mrs ’Arper, I’d see they didn’t,’ said Cassie.

Mrs Harper gave that some thought.

‘Well, all right, bring ’em through,’ she said, ‘but take ’old of them and don’t let go of them.’

‘Come on,’ said Cassie to the girls, and she took hold of their hands and went through to the kitchen
with
them, where she did the honours herself by introducing them to Percy. Percy eyed them brightly, and Mrs Harper eyed them warningly.

‘Go on, say ’ello to ’im,’ said Cassie.

‘’Ello, Percy,’ said both girls. Percy responded in peculiar fashion.

‘I’ll hit yer,’ he said.

Well, that was what it sounded like to Cassie.

‘Mrs ’Arper, why’s he say that?’ she asked.

‘Say what?’ said Mrs Harper.

‘That ’e’d hit us,’ said Cassie.

Mrs Harper laughed.

‘’E don’t mean it,’ she said.

‘Hello, sailor,’ said Percy, ‘give us a kiss.’