The Forget-Me-Not Summer (18 page)

As he climbed aboard the bus which would take him into the city centre, Steve remembered Timmy. He could not go with Missie when she left, nor could he stay at Jamaica House by himself. He could imagine the screams of outrage from her aunt if Miranda tried to introduce a dog into Number Six, and whilst his own mother and father were both easy-going and generous, they would say that they needed every penny they earned to feed and clothe their own family, and could not afford the luxury of a dog. But now that he was regularly fed, groomed and exercised, Timmy was an attractive little chap. I dare say Mum and Dad would take to him if I promised to pay for all his food out of the money I earn doing odd jobs, Steve told himself, moving down towards the back of the vehicle as it slowed at his stop. He jumped down and was delighted as well as surprised to find Miranda, hands in pockets, strolling idly up and down the pavement, with Timmy close at her heels. She grinned at him as he joined her.

‘Fancy meeting you!' she said gaily. ‘I guess it were you who got lucky this time, judging by your grin.' She drew him out of the hurrying crowd. ‘Here, Timmy! Don't you go wandering off; the butcher gave me a lovely marrowbone for you, so just you stick close to your pals, and you shall have it, as soon as we reach home.'

Back at the old house, Missie was waiting anxiously for them, knowing that Steve had believed he would meet the Grimshaws today. Despite the chill in the air she was sitting on the curved stone bench in the garden,
and jumped to her feet eagerly, her big liquid eyes full of hope. ‘Did you meet my young gentlemen?' she asked. ‘Oh, but I can see you did. Tell me! I expect you told Miss Miranda already; it good news, it written on your face.'

By the time Steve had finished his story it was getting dark and Missie led the way down the garden and into the kitchen. This was now a much cosier and pleasanter room altogether, for a small paraffin stove stood in the hearth and the three of them had brought comfortable cane chairs through from the rest of the house. Missie and Miranda had ransacked drawers, chests and cupboards, and the result was cushions, rugs, and old-fashioned cloaks, which they had hung over the shutters at the windows. There was also food; Missie had told them she had found a bakery whose workers at the end of the day threw out cakes and loaves which they felt were no longer saleable, so now the three of them settled down to eat and chat and to discuss the future. Miranda enjoyed the cakes, despite a lurking fear that Missie had probably stolen them. Well, so what? Everyone has to live, and a baker wouldn't go hungry because of the loss of a few sticky buns, a small loaf and some cake, whereas Missie must eat to live.

‘So, Gerald is coming here on Monday to meet you, just to make sure that the letter isn't a cunning forgery,' Steve said. ‘Then nothing much will happen until next Saturday, when Gerald and Julian get this exeat thing and go off to their uncle's house to tell him the story.' He turned to Missie. ‘Would you go with them? I really think you should. After all, you'll be heading away from the docks, not towards them, and the chances of anyone
recognising you are pretty slight. I know the village where the Grimshaws' Uncle Vernon lives; it's very quiet and rural, not at all the sort of place wandering seamen want to visit.' Missie looked doubtful but Steve, catching Miranda's eye, gave an encouraging smile. ‘I think we must somehow provide Missie with more suitable clothing than the things she's wearing at present before she meets Mr Grimshaw,' he said tactfully. ‘I know dark clothing is fine for raiding the docks but it really won't do for visiting Holmwood.' He turned to Missie. ‘I'm afraid you'd be far too conspicuous.'

Miranda had not thought of it before, but now she nodded vigorously. ‘Steve's right, Missie. But even if we go to Paddy's Market, we don't have the sort of money to buy a decent dress. Oh, if only we'd thought of it earlier Steve could have arranged to borrow some cash from Gerald. I suppose we could ask your mam if she could borrow us a skirt and blouse, Steve, but . . .'

But Steve was grinning, flapping a hand at her. ‘I've a better idea. I've heard two of the lads talking about the big rubbish skips at the back of Paddy's Market. It's a sort of yard at the corner of Maddox Street and Bevington Hill. The stallholders chuck anything they think they won't be able to sell into the bins on a Saturday night and on Monday morning the dustcarts collect them and carry them away. But the lads say some of the stuff is quite decent. They go there Sunday nights and either cram a sack with rags to sell to the rag and bone man – Packinham's or King's – or pick out the best stuff and sell it cheap to anyone willing to buy. If Miranda and meself nip down there tomorrow night with a couple of sacks, we can either help ourselves to anything we think
will fit you, Missie, or we can fill the sacks and sell the stuff next day, like the fellers do, and by a dress wi' the gelt.'

‘I'm surprised no one's twigged what's going on,' Miranda said, giggling. ‘If old Kingy only knew, he'd cut out the middle man and go straight to the rubbish bins himself. He's far too mean to want to part with his money needlessly.'

Steve laughed too. ‘You're right there. The fellers were sayin' someone were bound to find out soon, but I reckon if you and me go as soon as it gets dark tomorrow night, Miranda, we'll clean up.'

Missie beamed from face to face. ‘Shall I come too?' she asked eagerly. ‘I know where Paddy's Market is, on Scotland Road. I been there often.'

Both Miranda and Steve shook their heads firmly, however. ‘No, Missie. You'll have to trust us to pick something respectable,' Steve said firmly. He gestured to Miranda. ‘Time we were off. With a bit of luck your aunt and Beth will be in bed by the time you get home, and won't start asking questions.'

They said their farewells and made their way out to the main road to catch a tram back to Jamaica Close. As Miranda had expected, Number Six was in darkness, so she said goodbye to Steve and crept quietly to her bed.

Next day, in order to lull any suspicions that her aunt might be harbouring, she helped prepare and cook Sunday dinner and spent the rest of the day cleaning the house. Aunt Vi, coming in through the back door and narrowly avoiding the bucket of water with which Miranda was scrubbing the kitchen floor, swore loudly and would have given her a cuff, except that Miranda
ducked and raised her brush threateningly. Aunt Vi took evasive action, grumbling as she did so. ‘What ails you, you miserable little bugger? If you want to clean the place up you should do it on a Saturday. I'm in me best coat and shoes; if they've got splashed I'll know who to blame.'

Miranda finished the floor with a final swirl of her cloth and stood up. ‘I'm always busy on a Saturday, earning meself a few pence, so if you want floors scrubbed and cooking done it's got to be on Sunday,' she said firmly. She glanced at the clock above the mantel, which was showing five o' clock. ‘I'm off now, Aunt Vi. I won't bother to stay for tea.'

Vi had been heading across the kitchen, clearly intending to go to her room and change out of her decent Sunday clothing, but at her niece's words she stopped in her tracks. ‘You're going nowhere, not unless you tell me what you're up to . . .' she began, but Miranda was already out of the back door and hurrying across the yard. Heading for Steve's house, she felt quite excited. If they could acquire a decent skirt and some sort of blouse, Missie would be able to meet Mr Grimshaw, and then it was just a matter of time before her troubles would surely be over.

DESPITE THEIR HOPES
it was almost a month before the Grimshaws managed to arrange to take Missie to Holmwood, and Missie insisted that Miranda and Steve should accompany them. ‘I shall want Mr Vernon to meet my friends,' she said firmly. ‘We shall be respectable group, all in Sunday things, and Mr Vernon will arrange my passage home at once.'

Sitting on the bus which would take them to Holmwood, Miranda thought back over the past four weeks. The raid on the rubbish bins had started it, she thought, and that had not been all plain sailing by any means. For a start, it had begun to rain as they arrived at their destination, heavy rain which soon had both Steve and herself soaked to the skin, and had made the clothing they had crammed into their potato sacks extremely heavy. They had intended to select respectable garments both for Missie and for Miranda herself, but they soon abandoned that idea, simply filling their sacks with any clothing they could reach, for the bins were huge and deep. They had been heading back towards the big wooden double doors which led on to the road when these had creaked open and four boys, all a good deal larger than Steve, had shouldered their way in and stopped, staring with disbelief at Steve and Miranda.

Steve had tried to push past, but the biggest boy had
shoved him in the chest and kicked the door shut behind him. ‘You ain't goin' nowhere, Steve Mickleborough,' he had said gruffly. ‘You've been listenin' at doors you have, you sneaky little bastard. Me and the fellers ain't told no one about this here back yard so you'll hand over them sacks and clear orf before I clacks you so hard you'll be asleep for a week.'

‘Aw, come on, Muffler, there's plenty for all of us,' Steve had wheedled. ‘As for listenin'. . . well, I admit I did hear someone say as how the yard door wasn't locked, but you can't call that listenin', exactly . . .'

The large boy had given a scornful laugh. ‘Oh no?' he had said jeeringly. ‘I'll call it what I bleedin' well like, and I say you've been earwiggin'.'

But Miranda, seeing that the other three boys were already digging into the bins and shouting to their leader to get a move on so that they could get out of the perishin' rain, had sneaked round behind Muffler, pulled open the door, screamed to Steve to follow her and set off at a gallop. Her loot had been fearfully heavy and she might easily have been caught had not Steve swung his sack at Muffler's legs, causing him to crash to the ground. Horrified, for she guessed that Muffler would take it out on her pal next time they met, Miranda had hesitated, wondering whether she ought to help the big fellow to his feet and let him have her sack of clothing, but Steve had had no such qualms. ‘Gerra move on, you idiot, and don't you
dare
leave that sack behind,' he had screamed, clearly guessing her intention. ‘If we get a fair sum from old Kingy, I'll give Muffler a couple of bob to keep him sweet. Come
on
, Miranda Lovage!'

Soaked to the skin and fighting a wild desire to burst
into tears, for the rain had been so heavy that she could scarcely see more than a few feet ahead, Miranda had obeyed. She was panting and breathless, but when they reached Jamaica Close and lugged their sacks round the back jigger and into Steve's yard they had both been grinning. They knew they would have to dry the clothes out before they could present them to be weighed at the rag and bone man's yard, but that could be dealt with the following day. They had pushed their sacks into the shelter of the coal shed, exchanged promises to meet as usual the following morning, and made their weary way up to bed.

It had taken longer than they had anticipated to dry everything out because Monday and Tuesday had also been wet, but by Saturday it was dry at last and, as Miranda remarked, it was also very, very clean. They had sold most of it, save for a grey pleated skirt and a green jumper for Miranda, and then they had gone to a stallholder in Paddy's Market who was a friend of Steve's mother, who had agreed to lend them both clothing and shoes in different sizes, so that Missie might choose which she felt suited her best. Then Steve had returned to the market with the unwanted garments while Missie peacocked about Jamaica House, admiring her reflection in the long cheval glass in one of the bedrooms, and persuading Miranda to brush out her greying black hair and braid it into a coronet on top of her head.

‘You look like a queen, dear Missie,' Miranda had said, astonished at what decent clothing and a new hairstyle could do for their little friend. Now, as Missie sat between Steve and Miranda on the bus, she presented quite a respectable appearance. Oddly enough, she seemed to
have cast all her worries and doubts to one side, and had climbed aboard the bus quite merrily, chatting away to Miranda and Steve, though she did keep her voice very low, and appeared to be eager not to stare at her fellow passengers. The Grimshaw boys, who were already aboard, had grinned at them, but they had arranged not to join forces until they reached Holmwood, where Vernon Grimshaw and his family lived. No matter how respectable she, Steve and Missie might appear in their own eyes, she guessed that folk would stare to see two Browncoat boys in such odd company.

Soon the bus was drawing to a halt and Julian and Gerald were getting up from their seats, so the others followed suit. It was not raining, but the sky was overcast, and as Miranda alighted from the bus she looked around her with interest. They were in a village street with half-timbered thatched cottages on either side of the road, several of which were small shops. Miranda saw a blacksmith's, a bakery and what looked like a post office, but Steve was catching her hand, pulling her forward to where Missie and the boys stood. ‘We'd better introduce ourselves,' he said briskly. ‘Gerald we know, but . . .' he grinned at the older of the two boys, ‘my vivid intelligence tells me that this tall feller must be Julian. Am I right?'

Everyone smiled; Julian nodded, but looked around him rather uneasily. ‘We're a bit obvious standing about in the middle of the village street,' he observed. ‘Let's wait until we reach Holmwood Lodge.' To Miranda's astonishment, he bent down and kissed Missie's cheek. ‘It's grand to see you alive and well, dear Missie,' he said gently. ‘But we're not out of the wood yet, so let's
waste no more time. Uncle's house is about a quarter of a mile outside the village, so we'd best get going. Auntie is going to have tea and crumpets waiting . . .' he smacked his lips, ‘and if I know my aunt there'll be a big fruit cake and scones with jam and cream as well.'