Very soon she had left the flat behind and was sitting in Lyon’s Corner House in Church Street, eating beans on toast with a fried egg on top, and drinking a cup of strong tea. The restaurant with its tiled floor and marble-topped tables was cooler than the flat had been, and Emma enjoyed her meal. As she emerged on to the pavement once more she contemplated going to one of the many local picture houses, but she knew that she was too tired to enjoy a cinema show and so, reluctantly, returned to the flat. Presently she was in bed where, despite her resolve to think things over, she fell rapidly asleep.
About the time Emma was climbing into bed, Dot was returning to Lavender Court, no closer to finding a solution to their problem than she had been when she left the house that morning. She was prepared to find she had missed the evening meal and had already decided that she would go round to Fizz’s house and see if his mam would give her a cut off the loaf, or a couple of apples, so she skirted round the Brewster house and went straight to where Fizz was playing five stones with a redheaded, freckly boy from the next court. Fizz greeted her rather coldly. ‘I dunno what’s up wi’ you, Dotty,’ he said aggressively. ‘You ain’t been near nor by for a couple o’ weeks, but the first time you miss your aunt’s grub you’re round here like a dose o’ salts, tryin’ to get my mam to feed you. Oh, by the way, this is me new bezzie, Alfie. Alfie, this here’s Dotty McCann, what were me pal, once.’
Dot sniffed disdainfully, though she said hello to Alfie politely enough. It was often the way in school holidays; Fizz wanted to be one of the gang of lads from the courts and quite resented having to drag Dot around with him. Well, this time she wouldn’t plead with him to let her join in; this time she had fish of her own to fry, and a pal of her own as well – two pals, if you could count a grown-up lady as a pal.
‘Well? Don’t tell me you haven’t come round here after grub because I shan’t believe you. And when you’ve ate me mam out of house and home, don’t come round beggin’ for a game of footy, ’cos we’s off with the lads and youse can play girls’ games – hopscotch and that – wi’ Lizzie an’ Mabel.’
‘Well you’re wrong, Mr Clever-bloody-Fizz, ’cos I ain’t even
been
home yet,’ Dot said loftily. ‘I – I wondered if your mam wanted a message run, that’s all.’
Fizz gave a derisive snort and started to call her names, but Dot had already turned on her heel and was making her way back towards the Brewster house. She felt rather guilty, for she knew very well that she had neglected Fizz and had meant to ask his mam for food. But she did not mean to let Fizz know it and besides, you could never tell with Aunt Myrtle. She was a bad cook and a poor provider; sometimes the evening meal was on the table at five, on other occasions at eight. If her uncle had come in late, having somehow managed to get himself a bit of extra money from somewhere, then they might be having fish and chips right now. Mouth watering in anticipation, Dot shot up the front steps, through the front door and into the kitchen. So vivid had been the picture of a table laden with fish and chips and surrounded by her cousins that it was quite a shock to find the room empty of all save Aunt Myrtle and the table cleared and bare. Dot closed the door slowly behind her, then sniffed the air. No, it was not imagination, she really could smell fried fish. She glanced, hopefully, at her aunt. ‘Sorry I’m late, Aunt Myrtle,’ she said, rather breathlessly. ‘I – I were trying to get a job helping to deliver newspapers over on the other side of the city, but they said I were too young. Did you – did you have fish and chips for your suppers? I don’t s’pose there’s none left, eh?’
Her aunt had been sitting before the open window, sipping something from a large tin mug. She turned and scowled at her niece. ‘No, there’s nuthin’ left,’ she said. ‘What d’you expect? Your uncle brung ’em in ’cos he’d had a good day, an’ now he’s gone off to the bleedin’ pub wi’ these new pals o’ his. He said I could send one o’ the lads round to the pub with a jug and he’d fill it with porter, only – only they’s all gone off and you’re late, as usual, and – and I’m feeling sickish so I reckon I don’t want his bleedin’ porter. I’ll stick to tea.’
Dot stared rather helplessly across at her aunt. Aunt Myrtle was frequently bad-tempered, quicker with a blow than a kind word, but Dot could not remember her sounding so down and depressed before. She took a couple of steps towards the older woman and saw, for the first time, that there were what looked suspiciously like tears on her cheeks. Fearful of a rebuff, she patted her on the shoulder, saying awkwardly as she did so: ‘What’s up, Aunt Myrtle? It ain’t like you to be so glum.’
For a moment her aunt said nothing, then she heaved a long sigh and spoke. ‘I’m in the family way, that’s what. After all this time . . . it’s half a dozen years since I fell with Alan, so I thought I were safe. Things have been easier, what wi’ Sammy working – though it’s little enough o’ his money I see – and your uncle bringin’ in a bit more from the part-time job he’s got hisself when he’s not in the factory. But another perishin’ baby . . . well, that would have been bad enough, but this afternoon I went up to Brougham Terrace, and – oh, I can’t believe it!’
There was a long pause during which aunt and niece gazed at each other blankly. Then Dot spoke. ‘Wharrever is it, Aunt Myrtle?’ she enquired gently. ‘I’ll help you with the baby. I like babies.’
‘Babies is right, babies is the word,’ Aunt Myrtle said grimly. ‘It’s flamin’ twins, that’s wharrit is, and when I told your uncle, he – he
laughed
! And he’s gone off to the pub to boast to everyone wharra fine feller he is, and how I’m to manage I just don’t know.’
‘I’ll help,’ Dot said again. Actually, she was almost as dismayed as her aunt at the thought of two babies in the cramped little house but she knew better than to say so. ‘It won’t be too bad with the pair of us at it, Aunt Myrtle. We can buy an old pram from one of the stores on Great Homer or the Scottie, and I’ll be able to earn a bit more money doin’ messages for the neighbours when I’ve got a great big pram to carry the stuff home in.’
Her aunt fished a piece of rag out of her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘You! You won’t be here by then,’ she said mournfully. ‘What d’you think I’m goin’ to do wi’ two babies, eh? There’s no space for ’em in the boys’ room and your uncle won’t have ’em in with us, keepin’ him awake half the night. No, they’ll take your place in the kitchen and you’ll go where you should ha’ gone when your mam first dumped you on me, into a children’s home.’
For a moment, Dot could only stare at her aunt. When she spoke, though she tried hard to control it, her voice quivered. ‘You – you can’t mean that, Auntie! Why, with two little babies you’ll need all the help you can get, and I don’t mind sharin’ the kitchen with ’em. Or you could shift to somewhere bigger. Other folk do it, so why shouldn’t you and Uncle Rupe?’
‘Well, we will when there’s a bit more money comin’ in, but that don’t mean to say I’m goin’ to go on feedin’ you,’ her aunt said unkindly. ‘Why should I? You ain’t no child o’ mine and your mam’s long gone, like your dad. No, it’s the children’s home for you as soon as I can arrange it.’
Dot could see that, for the moment at least, her aunt was too upset to behave reasonably and was simply taking her frustration out on her niece. And oddly enough, her aunt’s last remark gave Dot hope. She had not lived with her Auntie Myrtle for most of her life without getting to know her pretty well, and she was always intending to do this, that or the other but seldom got round to actually doing it. It’ll be the same with the children’s home; she’ll mean to pack me off, keep plotting how she’ll arrange it . . . and keep putting it off as a task which can be done another day, Dot decided. Besides, it was Uncle Rupert who resented Dot’s presence; her aunt knew she was useful, must know in her heart that Dot would be a great help when the twins arrived. But it would not do to say so again, of course. Instead, she took the now empty tin mug from her aunt’s hand and walked across to the fire, saying cheerfully as she did so: ‘I’ll make you another cup of tea, Aunt, and a jam butty if you’d like one. Then I’ll do the washing-up and have a quick tidy round before I do the spuds for tomorrow night and lay the table for breakfast.’
‘Oh, here’s a change of face,’ her aunt said dolefully. ‘I’ve only got to mention a children’s home and you decide to give me a hand. Well, it won’t wash, young Dot; it’s too little, too late, as they say. I’ve ’ad to lay the table meself and wash up the crocks for weeks, so you needn’t think you can get round me by doin’ a few little jobs. Still, I don’t mind another cup o’ tea.’
Dot was open-mouthed at the unfairness of this criticism. True, she had been steering clear of the house whenever she could but she still did a great many chores for her aunt, which was more than could be said for her cousins. When they ‘forgot’ to bring in water, it was Dot who lurched to and fro across the yard with the well-filled buckets. When they did not feel like chopping orange boxes for kindling, it was Dot who wielded the axe. When her aunt saw a sack of potatoes being sold off cheap, at the far end of Heyworth Street, it was Dot who humped it home, having to stop to rest every few yards and arriving at the court feeling more dead than alive. Why, once, when her aunt had bought a stone of wet and slippery plaice from the Charlotte Street fish market and had sent Lionel to help Dot carry it home, he had run off with friends when they were halfway along Shaw Street, leaving Dot to wrestle with a wet and dripping – and still horribly wriggling – sack the rest of the way to Lavender Court. Fortunately, she remembered being told that pregnant women were often naggy and ill-tempered until they grew used to the idea of another child, so she spoke gently, pointing out that she usually did more than her fair share of the chores, as she handed her aunt the mug of well-sweetened tea. But it seemed Aunt Myrtle’s mind was too full of her own grievances to listen to reason.
‘Oh aye, you done your share from time to time, but not lately; lately, you’ve been off after your own pleasure from dawn till dusk,’ her aunt said accusingly. ‘An’ that’s always the way of it; you’ll help while it suits you, then you’ll sag off wi’ your own pals and leave me, what’s treated you like a daughter, to rot.’
Dot sighed but made no rejoinder. It was clearly useless to expect any sort of fairness when her aunt was in this mood. Better to leave the whole subject and hope that, as her time grew near, her aunt would realise the usefulness of a girl in a house full of boys and babies. She began to wash up the crocks, dried them on a thin tea towel and put them away. Then she peeled a mound of potatoes, slopped water over them from the nearest bucket, and began to lay the table for the next day’s breakfast. She was now so hungry that her stomach rumblings almost drowned out the sound of her aunt’s querulous voice, and presently Aunt Myrtle lumbered to her feet, announcing peevishly that she was off to bed. ‘You can mek up the sofa any time you like, and get between the blankets,’ she told her niece as she left the room. ‘The fellers won’t be in for a while yet.’
Sighing, Dot did all the chores still left, which included filling the buckets and damping down the fire, then got her blanket from the bottom of the dresser and prepared herself for bed. It was not until she had snuggled down that she remembered she had promised Corky and Emma that she would try to think of a plan to outwit the thieves. The trouble was, her own difficulties now loomed so large that robbery and murder, for the moment at least, took second place. But this would not do, Dot told herself. She tried to make herself concentrate, to think whom they could safely confide in. There must be someone who could tell them how to set a trap for the thieves which would not end in the exposure of herself, Corky and Emma as the people who had interfered in the doings of a well-known local figure – for Archie Rathbone was very well known, if not well liked.
But Dot’s mind simply refused to do as she asked it and soon she fell asleep, to dream of children’s homes, and other institutions, all night long.
Chapter Seven
Corky woke at sunrise, because a ray of light had fallen directly on to his face through one of the small broken windows of the hut. He sat up, rubbed his head and eyes vigorously, then reached for one of the withered apples he had nicked from a stall in St John’s market the previous day. He had salved his conscience by telling himself that since the fruit had been dropped and rolled under the stall, it was unlikely that anyone would have bought it, and now he took a big bite out of the apple and got to his feet to peer out of the window at the day. The sky was blue, without a cloud in sight, and the sunshine fell warmly on his face. Because the weather had been good for days, he had slept in his underpants and now he dressed himself as he ate, and considered the day ahead. He and Dot were not meeting until five in the afternoon and then they were going round to Emma’s flat, where they would discuss their plans. Corky had had several ideas which had seemed brilliant at the time, but now he was not too sure. He quite realised that he and the two girls might be disbelieved because Mr Rathbone was a grown man with considerable influence. Still, they did have the necklace, which was proof, of a sort, that Dot really had been hiding in the butcher’s bin, and really had heard the two men discussing what they had done. The trouble was, neither Dot, Corky himself, nor Emma knew anything about the second man, apart from the fact that his name was Ollie. Dot had said that she thought she had seen him but Corky was doubtful about this. After all, all she had seen was a man turning into a back alley, and he might merely have been using it as a short cut to another street; the man into whose face Dot had stared was probably completely innocent, but even if he were not he could be anyone – a solicitor, a judge, even a headmaster. Corky thought that they should do everything in their power to discover his identity before they made a move, and this was what he intended to tell Emma and Dot when they met that evening. Since it was the school holidays, he and Dot were free to hang about in the vicinity of the butcher’s shop without arousing suspicion, provided they were careful. He thought it unlikely that Ollie would visit the shop during trading hours, but in the evening, particularly after dusk, he might either go to the shop or arrange a mutually convenient meeting place where he and Mr Rathbone could discuss their affairs. Corky thought it would be easy enough to shadow Mr Rathbone, and once they knew the identity of his partner in crime they should be able to decide what best to do.