Johnny Swanson (18 page)

‘No point,’ said Hutch. ‘I don’t think that would win us many friends, do you?’

‘But what about the stuff they stole? Aren’t you going to report them for that?’

‘Who?’

‘Well, Albert Taylor for one. And Ernest Roberts. I saw them there.’

‘You saw them?’

‘Yes, I did. And I don’t see why they should get away with it. They’ve been horrible to me for ages. We should tell the police.’

‘You saw them steal the chocolates?’

‘Well, no. Not exactly. I didn’t see them actually do it. But I know it was them. I just know it.’

‘Oh, Johnny,’ sighed Hutch. ‘Listen to yourself. Can’t you hear who you sound like?’

‘Who?’

‘Like someone who saw your mother at the Langfords’ house? Like someone who saw her sitting in a pub? Do you actually know that Taylor and Roberts plundered the window display?’

Johnny was ashamed of himself. ‘No,’ he whispered.

‘Then I think it’s best if we say no more about it, don’t you?’

‘All right. But you’d better close down the shop, Hutch,’ said Johnny. ‘It isn’t safe for you here.’

Hutch disagreed. ‘We’ll see off those bullies,’ he said. ‘And we’ll beat them by carrying on. I won’t close. In fact, I can’t close. I have to stay open, because of the post office. It’s my duty. It’s as simple as that.’

When Johnny arrived home that night, he found a pudding basin on the doorstep. He recognized it as the one Winnie had used to make Mrs Slack a treacle sponge on a cold day at the beginning of December. It was half full of a golden liquid. Johnny didn’t stop to investigate what that might be. He could guess. He
tipped it away, and dashed the basin against the wall.

Alone inside, he barricaded the door in case anyone tried to break in. He tore up some old newspapers to try to get a fire going in the grate. There was something in one of them about the effort the police were making to find Marie Langford in France, so they could tell her about her husband’s tragic death. They didn’t seem to be having any luck with their search. Johnny wondered whether they were trying hard enough. Perhaps, if he could find her first, before the police had a chance to poison her mind against Winnie, Johnny might persuade Mrs Langford to help clear his mother’s name. At the very least she could tell everyone how honest and reliable Winnie had been in the past. She might even be able to suggest another suspect for the murder. If only he could make contact with Marie Langford, wherever in France she might be.

Someone rapped on the door. Johnny jumped up and turned down the lamp, so that whoever was outside would think the house was empty. But the knocking came again. Then a half-familiar voice. Johnny worked out who it was just before the man said his name. It was the reporter.

Johnny went over to the door. ‘Go away,’ he
shouted. ‘I’m not allowed to talk to you. The police said so.’

‘And why should you do what the police say?’ asked the man. ‘They’ve put your mother in prison. They don’t believe she’s innocent. Why should you listen to them?’

‘I don’t want to get her into any more trouble,’ said Johnny.

The reporter pushed open the letter box. Johnny could see his lips moving. ‘Pardon me for saying this, Johnny, but when you’re on trial for murder, you can’t really get into any more trouble. What are they going to do? Hang her twice?’ His lips and teeth settled into a sneer.

Johnny felt sick at the thought that his mother might die. ‘Go away,’ he said, trying to push down the flap of the letter box. ‘Leave me alone.’

The reporter pushed back. His voice softened. ‘All I want to do is talk to you about your mother. I’m not going to write anything about her in the paper. I’m not allowed to until the trial. But when it’s over, everyone is going to want to know about her – what she was really like. Only you can tell me that, Johnny. If you don’t tell me the nice things about her, I won’t be able to write them down. I’ll have to rely on people
like Miss Dangerfield. Do you want me to go and talk to her again?’

‘No, I don’t. And stop talking as if Mum is going to be found guilty. She didn’t do it. I know she didn’t. Why aren’t you and the police trying to find out who did?’

Now the reporter’s eyes filled the slot in the door. ‘That’s a good point, Johnny,’ he said. ‘Do you have any ideas about who might have done it? I’d love to hear them. Let me in, and we can talk in the warm.’

‘It’s not very warm in here,’ said Johnny.

‘Well, maybe I could give you the price of the coal you’ll burn while you’re talking to me. Perhaps a little more than that. And remember, I can’t help your mother if I don’t know enough about her to make her case. Let me in, Johnny. Please.’

Johnny was on the point of giving way when he heard footsteps coming down the lane. There were at least two men, and they were getting closer. He could hear their voices. They sounded drunk, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then he heard the reporter again. He was shouting now.

‘Get out of it!’ he yelled.

Johnny peered through the letter box. He could see the reporter grappling with the men. He held one of
them by the hair while he punched the other, bringing up his knee to hit him in the groin. Then, while that man rolled on the floor in agony, he jabbed his fingers into the other’s eyes and wrenched his arm behind his back. Johnny winced with pain just watching.

The reporter kicked the man on the ground. ‘I said clear off. Keep away or I’ll get you again. And I’ll tell the police too. Do you hear?’

The men swore at him, but they slunk away, back up the narrow alley. The reporter knocked on the door again, and this time Johnny let him in. His lips were swollen and his knuckles were bleeding.

‘Why were those men after you?’ asked Johnny.

‘They weren’t after me, son. They were after you. But you won’t be troubled by them again. Not if they think I’m protecting you. If there’s one thing the war did for the likes of me, it taught us how to fight. Those youngsters didn’t have a chance. But you’d better be careful. Watch where you go. Especially after dark.’

The reporter blotted the blood with his handkerchief. Johnny dragged over the armchair, casually dismantling the pretend Auntie Ada. He climbed up to get the ointment down from beside the Peace Mug
on the high shelf. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with his back to the reporter. He felt he owed the man a smear of antiseptic, even if he wasn’t supposed to talk to him.

The reporter took the opportunity to get a conversation going. ‘Are you getting enough to eat?’ he asked, looking around the bare room for signs of food.

Johnny opened a cupboard and showed off the things Hutch had given him since Winnie’s arrest. Everything was in tins: ham, peas, some sweet evaporated milk. ‘I’ve got a bit of cheese too,’ said Johnny. He reached across to the windowsill and took down a little parcel wrapped in greaseproof paper. ‘Do you want some? I’m afraid I haven’t got any bread.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Johnny,’ said the reporter. He put his hand in his coat pocket. ‘I’ve got a couple of apples here. Why don’t we share them?’

So Johnny got a knife and two plates from the side of the sink. At first he was going to give the reporter his mother’s plate – the chipped one with blue roses round the edge – but then he thought he’d keep that one for himself. He didn’t want a stranger to have it. The reporter had Johnny’s: plain white, with a red rim.

The apples and cheese went well together, and the reporter started asking casual questions about Winnie
while he crunched his way through the fruit. At first Johnny kept his answers short and factual. Then he found himself talking more and more about his mother: how she had been left completely alone when his father was killed, because neither she nor Harry had had any family left by 1918. He described how she looked after the neighbours, how hard she worked, and how worried she was about the rent going up. The reporter listened, and sympathized, and gave Johnny a handful of coins when he left.

‘Be careful, Johnny,’ he said. ‘Lock the door behind me when I go. And if you think of anything else you want to tell me, just get in touch.’ He wrote his office telephone number on a piece of paper and handed it over.

As he bolted the door, Johnny felt glad to have met someone who really cared about him. He thought he might ask Hutch if he could use the phone tomorrow. Maybe he could persuade the reporter to help him track down Marie Langford in the hope that she might prove that Winnie wasn’t a killer. Perhaps it would be all right to break his promise and tell the reporter about the BCG so that he could help to find the real murderer.

But then Johnny noticed that something was
missing from the mantelpiece. The reporter had taken the photograph of his father. It was the only picture of Harry Swanson that Johnny had ever seen. As far as he knew it was the only image of him anywhere. And that man had taken it. Taken it without asking. Johnny decided to have nothing more to do with him. He would search for Mrs Langford by himself.

J
ohnny realized that his best bet for finding Marie Langford was to use the two tools he knew so well: the post and the newspapers. He put a new personal message in the
London Times
, quoting Auntie Ada’s box number, and he helped Hutch sort letters that came into the post office, looking out for anything addressed to the doctor’s house. He reckoned that since Mrs Langford was abroad, and didn’t know that her husband was dead, she was bound to write him a letter sometime – especially with Christmas coming. The police had the same idea, and an officer came in every day to check for letters from France, but nothing turned up. The policeman wasn’t at all interested in doing anything about the broken shop window. He seemed to think that bad feeling against Hutch and Johnny was only natural.

Hutch tried asking the policeman about the investigation. ‘Is there anything new? Have you found out any more about the murder?’

The officer’s response was steely: ‘We’ve got all the evidence we need. And even if there was a development, why should I tell you, in view of your relationship with the accused?’

Over the weekend, Johnny filled the long evening hours devising new money-making schemes. The rent rise was now only days away, and the savings inside his rabbit wouldn’t last long. He couldn’t afford to be high-minded about advertising. He roughed out a couple of offers:
Give Your Home a Country Feel
. People who sent him sixpence would be told:
Walk around in muddy boots
.

He even thought of putting a little free sample of dirt into the envelopes. Perhaps he’d add a few seeds too. He could easily get some from the plants in the graveyard. Maybe he could say they were magic seeds. He got that idea from the posters outside the Playhouse. They were doing
Jack and the Beanstalk
as the Christmas pantomime.

Johnny’s most frequent correspondent, the aspiring poet, had sent ten poems at once, asking what the Poetry Police thought of them. Johnny spent two whole evenings writing his replies, glad of the one-pound postal order that had arrived with them, and determined to give value for money so that the man
would write again. He put the poems in a stack by the fire, ready to use them as fuel; but then he had another idea. He cut them up into strips, each containing one line of verse, and shuffled them up. A quick advert in the
Stambleton Echo
offered:

He ran to the advertising office first thing the next day, and managed to get the advertisement into that evening’s edition. The lady behind the counter thought it was one of his auntie’s better ideas. The kit would, she said, make an excellent Christmas present. She was right. The response was immediate and enthusiastic.

By Christmas Eve Johnny was confident that he would be able to pay the rent for the whole of January, right up to the date of his mother’s trial. He was glad about that, but he was tormented by the thought of how Hutch would react if he found out how he had got hold of so much money.

‘I see your auntie is still sewing,’ said Hutch when Johnny presented a pile of postal orders for cashing
before the post office closed down for Christmas. ‘That’s good.’

Johnny was on the point of telling him the truth about Ada when a customer came in. Trade was so slow that Hutch could not afford to ignore her, even for a second, and Johnny didn’t want to risk reminding her of ‘the Bloody Barmaid of Stambleton’, so he dived into the stockroom. Yet another chance to own up had come and gone.

I
n the stockroom, Johnny re-read the letter he had written for Hutch to take to his mother. In it, he apologized for making her so angry on the night they’d last been together, and insisted that the whole terrible mess was his fault. He swore he would do everything he could to get Winnie out of prison. Somehow it didn’t seem right to sign off without wishing her a happy Christmas, even though he knew there was no chance of that for either of them. It was nearly noon. Before long, Hutch would be setting off for the prison. Johnny imagined his mother alone in her cell, wondering whether anyone was doing anything to get her released.

In fact, Winnie was worrying about Johnny. She had no idea what had happened to him after her arrest, and no one would tell her. A lawyer, appointed by the court, had been to see her, but had offered little hope. It was clear that he, like the police, saw
her conviction as inevitable. Winnie wondered whether she would ever see Johnny again. She was devastated that their last words to each other had been so harsh, and felt that she had let her son down, even though she was innocent of any crime. She was lonely in her cell, but terrified whenever she was let out to exercise with the other prisoners – even though they kept their distance, assuming that she was capable of killing. Winnie had hardly eaten for nearly a fortnight, and was even skinnier than before. There was no mirror, but she knew that now, more than ever, she matched the description Mr Murray had given the court of the dazed and desperate creature he had seen in the pub on that awful night. Her hair was lank and greasy, and she badly needed a proper wash.