After Hours (6 page)

‘Oh no!' Even being here, alone with Richie, would upset Rob if he found our. He'd think she'd planned it, ‘No, never mind. I'd best be off.'

He didn't respond, wiping his hands on a rag slung from a hook on the wall. Then she felt ashamed of treating him so badly, and angry that this was how others arranged her life for her. Why shouldn't she talk to him? Talk was only talk. ‘Shall I leave you this soup?' she offered.

He wished she'd make up her mind; either he was below notice,
or he wasn't. When he'd taken her out to the picture palace, she'd proved in one unguarded moment that she found him attractive. Then she'd gone and cut him dead. Now she was being friendly all over again. Cat and mouse. He stared silently at her.

His gaze succeeded in unnerving her. ‘It was Rob, really,' she explained. ‘He went mad at me for walking out with you.'

‘Were we walking out? I thought we went to see a picture.'

She nodded and turned away, resenting being teased.

‘I ain't good enough, I don't suppose?' Richie stood in her way.

‘It ain't that. Rob don't care about that. But it's Walter he's thinking of. Walter's his pal!'

‘And does Walter own you? What about you? What do you think?' He kept his distance, but didn't offer to shift.

‘'Course not. Only, I owe it to him. Oh, I don't know!' She backed off. ‘It's best left alone.'

‘Is that what you think?'

His look, his slow voice hooked her like a fish on a line. ‘Yes, it's what I think!' She felt the rain slanting against her back as she stepped outside.

‘And is it what you feel?'

‘It's the same thing, ain't it?' With a sudden change of mind, she rushed forward and thrust the basket into his arms. ‘Don't ask me!' she cried.

‘You said that before.' He caught her by the elbow. ‘Remember?'

The shock of his touch ran through her. She felt herself tremble, then she struggled to get free.

He let her pull away and stand upright, but he'd brushed his face close to hers, smelt the rose of her soap or perfume. ‘I'll move on, then,' he said abruptly. He decided in an instant. ‘It ain't no good hanging round here waiting for this whole thing to blow up in my face. Your Rob's got a temper. I'll go; you won't have to worry no more.'

‘No!' Once more she let herself down, gave herself away. ‘I mean to say, there's no need. You're wanted here to work on the cars.'

Richie looked away. ‘You'd best get out of here. They'll be back soon.' The match would be over. He had several messages from
customers to hand over to his bosses when they returned. ‘You can have a lift if you want.'

‘No.' She darted out into the heavy downpour, careless of the huge, dirty puddles. ‘I can walk, thanks.' And she ran off, her thoughts as ragged and confused as ever.

Richie deposited her basket on the desk, squatted down, took hold of the front bumper of the old Bullnose and swung himself from view once more.

Palace had lost two-nothing. The home crowd had sung ‘Abide with Me' right through to the dying seconds, to no avail. Bertie Hill blamed the muddy conditions, Walter said that County were the best side on the day. Rob coughed the engine back into life as the other three flung open the doors and piled into the car. He swung his disappointment into the violent turning of the starter-handle, but he'd forgotten to retard the engine. The motor caught fire and turned at full speed, kicking back the handle, nearly taking his thumb with it. Rob cursed and climbed into the driver's seat. They drove in subdued silence; only after they'd drowned their sorrows in a pint or two of best bitter would they be able to take their defeat philosophically. The inside of the car smelt of wet worsted and stale cigarette smoke. The windows steamed up, the old car refused to grip the wet road.

‘Thanks for the lift, pal,' Tommy said. Rob had stopped to drop Bertie and him off at the Duke. ‘Another day, another dollar, as they say.' He shrugged and slammed the door shut.

‘You been watching too many American pictures,' Walter warned. But he knew Rob was anxious to get back to the depot. The rain would mean plenty of taxi business tonight; people didn't like standing in a queue for the tram, getting soaked on their night out.

But halfway down Meredith Court, the Morris started churning out steam from under the bonnet. The plugs had overheated and the car was losing water fast. ‘Bleeding thing!' Rob cried, mouthing curses as Walter scrambled in the boot for the emergency canvas bucket. He filled it at a nearby standpipe while Rob lifted the
bonnet and eased the cap off the radiator. Minutes ticked by. Richie would already have booked them in for jobs, expecting them back by now.

Walter shook his head. ‘This old girl's on her last legs, you know that?' His race was serious as he refilled the radiator. ‘She ain't reliable no more.'

Rob sighed. He leaned against the door biting his thumbnail. ‘Got a spare three hundred and forty-one quid on you, pal?'

Walter gave a hollow laugh. He felt in his pockets. ‘Well, it just so happens . . . no!' He slammed down the bonnet and chucked the canvas bucket into the boot. ‘Things are a bit tight right now.' He turned the starter-handle while Rob advanced the engine. They'd lost a good fifteen minutes waiting for it to cool.

‘
We beat 'em on the Marne
,' Rob growled, swinging the car back into the slow crawl of traffic. He chanted the old war song with savage irony.

‘
We beat 'em on the Aisne.
We gave them hell at Neuve Chapelle
...'

He blew his horn furiously at a cyclist who had wobbled out from behind a crowded omnibus.

‘
And here we are again
!'

‘Steady on, Rob!' Waiter warned. He made a grab for a hand-hold as the car swerved to one side. ‘Ain't a thing we can do about it.' He resigned himself to getting Richie to strip down the engine of the old car one more time.

‘Maybe. Maybe not.' Rob's brain was a riot of ideas, some feasible, some not. They could sell both Morrises and buy one new Cowley. They could team up with another outfit, cut down on overheads, start saving all over again. They could borrow more money. ‘Maybe not!' he repeated, careering through puddles with a hot hiss of steam. He pulled to a halt outside the depot, leaped out and slammed the door as he went inside.

Walter jumped into the serviced car still parked inside the garage. Richie handed him an address, saying the woman had already rung up twice to ask where he was. Rob started up the engine, Walter put his foot down and was on his way. Rob went into the office to check the next job on the list.

‘What the bleeding hell's this?' he asked, shoving a basket to one side. He glowered at the scrawled messages.

Richie frowned. He stood in his shirt-sleeves, a wide leather belt buckled carelessly round his waist, his collarless shirt open at the neck. ‘Sadie brought it in,' he answered. His choice had been to get rid of the basket and avoid awkward questions, or to leave it on view. Some stubbornness in him had chosen the second option. Now he stood looking steadily at Rob as the information sank in.

Rob, never one to ask questions, pounced on the one unacceptable fact. ‘She never came down here?'

‘She did.' Richie took his jacket from a peg behind the door.

‘By herself?'

He nodded.

Rob kicked a chair to one side and slammed the office door shut. Its glass panels rattled. His eyes widened, his fists clenched as he pinned Richie into one comer. ‘Now listen, Palmer, you leave that girl alone, you hear me? You lay one finger on her and I'll break your neck!' He faced his strong, able-bodied opponent head on, without a scrap of fear. Even when Richie unfastened his belt and swung its brass buckle out in front, wrapping the leather strap around his wrist for a firmer grasp, Rob refused to back off. ‘Come on, then! Come on! What you waiting for?' He crouched low and made a beckoning motion.

‘You don't want a fight,' Richie warned him, low and menacing. ‘Ain't nothing worth fighting over.'

Further enraged, Rob swung at him. Richie dodged sideways, escaping from the corner. He was three or four inches taller than Rob, younger, fitter.

‘I'm telling you, lay off my sister. She ain't interested, get it? She don't want nothing to do with a hooligan like you!' Rob spat with ineffectual rage. He swung again, once more missing his target.

‘You'd better ask her that.' Richie put the desk between himself and his boss. He never even raised his voice.

To Richie, things had suddenly changed. Five minutes ago he'd been prepared to vanish, without wages, without explanation! He'd take his cap and jacket off the hook and never show up again. This thing with Sadie was too complicated. Since he never knew which way she'd jump, he felt the whole affair was out of his control, and he was uneasy. Besides, whenever he saw her, his urge to hold her and the memory of kissing her that once resurfaced and threw him further off balance. He didn't like that feeling one bit.

Now it was different; Robert had come charging in with orders, with the idea that he could lord it over Richie and rule his life. Richie had never been able to bear being told what to do. Brought up by Barnardo's, he'd learnt to follow his own instincts to survive. He took the children's home for what it gave him – food and shelter – but he hated the rules and Christian browbeating that went with them. He left there when he was ten years old. His teenaged years on the streets had toughened him up and taught him never to trust. Then two years of army service had fuelled his obsession with car engines. He gleaned information and experience from working on supply lorries that travelled between the Belgian coast and the front line. Like many uneducated men, the war had at least given him a trade. Otherwise, it only served to reinforce his rebellious spirit.

He had one sergeant-major who treated him like dirt; Richie got the worst billets, the most dangerous tasks in a battle of wills to see if he would crack. But it came to a bad end. The sergeant-major had sent Richie over the top on reconnaissance once too often. He and the other men had stayed put in the trench until they heard a hail of enemy fire. But the sergeant left his own strategic retreat a second too late. A shell had landed in the trench over Richie's head, leaving the sergeant-major hanging on the old barbed wire. Later, Richie would sing that wartime favourite with vicious enjoyment.

Rob wore a dark moustache, just like that sergeant-major. His
upright bearing gave him a military air. He was the type who never showed a soft side. His temper was always ready to flare and he didn't like to be crossed.

‘Look, I ain't gonna take none of your cheek, you bleeding idiot.' Rob jumped down Richie's throat. ‘Sadie's spoken for. Why can't you get that into your thick head?' He got ready for his third lunge, this time raising the heavy brass phone, holding it like a dub. The wire wrenched from its socket and dangled uselessly.

Over his head, beyond the glass partition, Richie spotted the rapid approach of Rob's eldest sister, Frances. He lowered the belt and unwound it from his fist. Instinctively Rob dropped his own guard. ‘You heard me,' he warned. ‘You leave her alone.'

Richie turned away and took his jacket without a reply. But the set of his shoulders spoke defiance. ‘Try and make me,' he suggested. It was in the angle of his cap, in his curt nod at Frances as she came in. He loped off across the cinder yard.

Frances Wray, as she now was, had spoken earlier on the phone to Hettie. She'd set off for the Duke as soon as she could, hoping to catch her sister before she left for the Mission. Hettie's tone had been uncharacteristically downbeat. Though she'd been quick to deny that anything was amiss, Frances had decided to leave work and pay her a visit.

Since Rob's depot was on her way and it was raining hard, Frances thought she might ask Rob for a rare favour and catch a lift to the Duke. Now she shook out her black umbrella and closed it, glad to find someone in. ‘Cheer up, it might never happen,' she told Rob. His face was like thunder.

‘It already did.'

Frances glanced after the retreating figure of Richie Palmer. ‘Well, anyhow, run me up home to the Duke, there's a good chap. I need to see Hettie and I'm afraid I've left it late,' Frances sighed. ‘Why do customers always have to come in at the last minute? You'd think they'd show more consideration. Don't they know we have our own lives to lead?' She'd been mixing pastes and making up pills until well after five o'clock.

‘No, didn't you know?' Rob tilted his chin up and fixed his tie straight. He was beginning to recover from his argument with Richie. ‘You ain't a human being. You're a machine for peddling pills and potions, that's all.'

‘Ta very much, Rob.' By now they'd climbed into his cab and backed out of the yard on to the dark street. Frances sat quietly in the passenger seat, listening to the swish of the tyres through the puddles. In her feather-trimmed hat and fawn, tailored outfit, she looked quietly respectable as always. ‘Ett didn't sound her usual self,' she commented, separated from the familiar sights of Duke Street by the steamy windscreen. ‘She ain't mentioned nothing to you, has she, Rob?'

He came to a halt outside the pub. ‘There was something, but she didn't say what. I think she's got a lot on her mind. She won't even say nothing to George, though, so there's no use asking me.'

George Mann, also a pal of Rob's, stayed quiedy in the background of Hettie's life, and he had become part of the Parsons family. He'd taken Joxer's place as cellarman at the Duke, after Joxer had uprooted and drifted off on his silent, lonely way. George had been glad of a job during the lean period after the war. Duke said he owed him a steady place after he'd snatched Rob from certain death on the battlefield; it was George who'd lifted the wounded soldier on to his back and staggered with him to safety. ‘He'll stick like glue,' Annie warned. She knew the type; strong and silent, pretty much alone in the world, fond of his home comforts, and quickly felling for Hettie.