The Camberwell Raid (15 page)

‘I’ll be there, Annabelle,’ said Polly, and found a smile.

‘Let the switchboard know I’ll be out for a short while, will you, Annabelle?’ said Boots. ‘I’ve a tea dance date with Miss Simms.’

‘A what?’ said Annabelle.

‘Just a joke,’ smiled Boots.

I don’t suppose Aunt Emily would call it that, thought Annabelle as she watched them leave. By no means simple, Annabelle had once asked Rosie if
she
thought Polly Simms was in love with Uncle Boots. No, of course not, said Rosie, despite being certain Polly was. But that certainty was something Rosie kept to herself. Well, said Annabelle, I sometimes think she might be. I mean, there has to be some reason why she’s never married. Oh, Polly’s married to her wartime memories, said Rosie.

In the Lyons teashop at Camberwell Green, Boots did his best to calm the lady down. Polly really did feel furious that she hadn’t been told about Major Armitage. If anyone had suggested it was purely a family matter, she’d have thought they needed their heads examined. However, Boots put her fully in the picture, and finished by saying that as everything fitted, there was no way to dispute the man’s claim.

‘I’m still peeved you didn’t think to, phone me, you stinker,’ said Polly. ‘A fat lot of good it’s done me, giving you the best part of my devotion all these years.’

‘Well, you know what men are like, Polly,’ said Boots, ‘we don’t always get things right in respect of our best friends.’

‘Don’t be feeble,’ said Polly. ‘I’m not a best friend, best friends are ten a penny. I’m your lover, still waiting for you to take me to bed. You’ll regret all you passed up when I eventually go off you. Which I will one day.’ She made a face. ‘When I’m ninety,’ she said.

‘That’s a long way off,’ said Boots.

Polly drank her tea.

‘Have you spoken to Rosie’s mother?’ she asked.

‘Milly Tooley?’ said Boots. ‘She called herself Mrs Pearce when I first knew her. No, I haven’t spoken to her, nor seen her, since the adoption. She was
married
then to a stage magician called Rainbould. Where she is now, God knows.’

‘Her father, Mr Tooley, might know,’ said Polly.

‘Is there something on your mind, Polly?’ asked Boots.

‘Only the fact that Milly Rainbould might know if Major Armitage is definitely the man who fathered Rosie,’ said Polly.

‘Would she know after all these years?’ asked Boots. ‘Would she be able to say with certainty he was the man who seduced her? According to what Mr Tooley told me when Rosie was five, Milly couldn’t even remember the man’s name, only that he was an officer.’

‘Wake up, you idiot,’ said Polly.

‘Have I missed something?’ asked Boots.

‘Only the obvious, that if Milly Rainbould couldn’t recognize Mayor Armitage as the man in question, any attempt he might make to be legally declared Rosie’s father would start off on very shaky ground,’ said Polly.

‘Frankly,’ said Boots, ‘I’ve no doubts myself.’

‘But you’d fight, wouldn’t you, if Major Armitage tried to have the adoption set aside?’

‘All the way,’ said Boots.

‘Then create some doubts,’ said Polly.

‘Have you got a slice of chicanery in mind?’ asked Boots.

‘You could get arrested for using a word like that in a Lyons teashop,’ said Polly.

‘I’m not too much in favour of something that would deny the man his right to be accepted as Rosie’s natural father,’ said Boots.

‘But you’re against the adoption being set aside,
you’ve
just said so. Any doubts would make the law reluctant to go along with him. Listen, old sport, didn’t you once tell me you had to pay Rosie’s mother as much as five hundred pounds in order to agree to the adoption?’

‘The amount meant a lot more to her than Rosie did,’ said Boots.

‘So she likes money,’ said Polly. ‘I don’t know why I’m on your side after being treated like a casual passer-by, but I am. So let’s talk, but come closer first.’

Boots smiled, moved to the chair that was at right angles to hers, and they talked, at the end of which Boots said nothing doing to Polly’s suggestion that she’d take a hand in the matter and do Major Armitage in the eye by hook or crook. Polly asked why not. It’s trickery, said Boots. Don’t make me laugh, said Polly. Leave it, said Boots. Polly said she’d talk to Rosie sometime. Rosie will surprise you, said Boots.

‘Exactly who’s goin’ to Cassie’s and Sally’s weddings?’ asked Vi over supper that evening. Their three children were making hungry inroads into sweet lamb chops, creamy mashed potatoes and tender cauliflower covered with a sauce.

‘All the grown-ups,’ said Tommy.

‘Is that us?’ asked David, eight.

‘No, of course not, soppy,’ said Alice, nine, ‘we’re not grown-ups.’

‘Nor’s me,’ said Paul, four.

‘Let’s see,’ said Tommy, ‘it’s Grandma Finch and Grandpa Finch, Aunt Em’ly, Uncle Boots, cousins Rosie and Eloise—’

‘She ain’t grown-up, is she?’ said David.

‘Who, Eloise?’ said Vi, still soft-eyed and soft-spoken in her thirty-fifth year.

‘Yes, and she’s French,’ said Alice.

‘She’s eighteen,’ said Tommy, ‘and your Aunt Sally said that was old enough. Then there’s Aunt Susie and Uncle Sammy, Aunt Lizzy, Uncle Ned and Annabelle.’

‘Crikey, all that lot and not us?’ said David.

‘We’re children,’ said Alice.

‘There’s just not room for everyone, David lovey,’ said Vi.

‘I don’t mind,’ said David. ‘Well, there’s kissin’ at weddings.’

‘Hello, hello, ’ave we got another Uncle Sammy here?’ asked Tommy.

‘Yes, your Uncle Sammy always complained about kissin’ when he was your age, David,’ smiled Vi.

‘I ain’t surprised,’ said David, ‘kissing’s all wet.’

‘I never been to a weddin’,’ said Paul.

‘You’re lucky,’ said David, ‘it’s saved you a lot of wet kissin’.’

‘Daddy doesn’t do wet kissing,’ said Alice, ‘does he, Mum?’

‘Well, I’ve never had a wet one from him yet,’ said Vi.

‘Billy Martin ’ad six from Dolly Harris last week,’ said David.

‘He had what?’ said Tommy. Billy Martin and Dolly Harris, both eleven, were at the same school as Alice and David.

‘Well, she ain’t half big for her age, Dad,’ said David.

‘Yes, and all Billy’s struggles were in vain,’ said Alice. ‘Poor boy,’ she added solemnly.

‘I’d ’ave helped him,’ said David, ‘but I’m not tall enough yet. Crikey, I never seen such wet kisses, they nearly drowned him.’

‘Nearly a fate worse than death, was it?’ grinned Tommy.

‘Dad, can you cut the bits of meat off me chop?’ asked Paul.

‘Well,’ said Tommy, ‘you can—’

‘No, he can’t,’ said Vi.

‘Grandma always let us gnaw our chop bones,’ said Tommy.

‘Manners, Tommy, if you don’t mind,’ said Vi. Since moving to this quite grand house on Denmark Hill and acquiring a daily help and a gardener, Vi had thought everyone’s manners ought to be in keeping. Well, it really was a grand house compared to their previous one, the front approach so wide that a lorry could have been driven through the entrance gate and past the side of the house to the back garden itself. Tommy didn’t see why they should change their way of living, but men, of course, weren’t as particular about some things as women. The funny thing was that although Tommy didn’t know it and wouldn’t have believed it if she’d told him, he’d gradually taken on the style of a prosperous gent of leafy Denmark Hill. Well, for instance, he now had a Donegal tweed suit with a matching hat for weekends, which, in her eyes, made him look like a handsome country squire. Also, he made a proud dad’s remarks about what a little lady Alice was, and he wouldn’t let young Paul tread in puddles like an old-time street kid, such as he’d been himself in his Walworth years. Further, every time the gardener addressed him as ‘guv’nor’ he gave him a sort of
gracious
nod. ‘We’ve got to take notice we’ve come up in the world, Tommy,’ she said.

‘We’ve done that all right, Vi,’ said Tommy, ‘but chop bones are just the same, and no-one’s lookin’.’

‘I am,’ said Vi, and her children glanced at her, all of them wishful to gnaw at what was left of their tasty chops. She smiled placidly. ‘Oh, all right, then, just this once,’ she said. The kids set to with their fingers and teeth.

‘Tell you what, Alice,’ said Tommy, ‘as you’re missin’ the Easter Saturday double weddin’, I’ll take you all to Brighton in the car on Easter Sunday, and your mum can come as well.’

‘My, aren’t you gracious?’ said Vi, and smiled again.

‘Well, Dad’s our gracious Lord of the Manor,’ said Alice. Their house was called ‘The Manor’.

‘Oh, I come from a fam’ly of lords,’ said Tommy. ‘Your Uncle Sammy’s what you call a business lord, and your Uncle Boots ’as been Lord-I-Am since I don’t know when.’

‘Granny Victoria always says Uncle Boots is a born gentleman,’ declared Alice. Granny Victoria was Vi’s mother and a woman who, originally, had disapproved of Tommy as a prospective husband for her daughter on the grounds that unlike his brother Boots, he was a bit common. Well, said Vi eventually, if Tommy’s common, so am I, and we’re going to be common together. That gave her mum a fit and also a bit of heartburn, but when Tommy made good in the firm’s business there were no more fits or heartburn, only a mother-in-law proud to inform her neighbours that her daughter had made a respectable and prosperous marriage.

‘What’s a born gentleman, Daddy?’ asked Alice.

‘One that looks like your dad when he’s wearin’ his tweed suit,’ said Vi.

‘Crikey,’ said David, ‘he just looks like our dad to me.’

‘Well, I don’t aspire to bein’ like your Uncle Boots,’ said Tommy, ‘but what I can aspire to is me belief that our Alice is a born lady.’

‘What, her?’ said David. ‘But she’s just me sister.’

‘Yes, she’s mine as well,’ said Paul, and his young brow furrowed as if even at his age there were family problems he had to face up to. ‘She’s both our sister.’

‘Oh, don’t mention it, I’m sure,’ said Alice, wearing her nine years in the happy knowledge that she’d soon be ten and accordingly entitled to a lovely new frock. A new frock as a present was always second to none as far as Alice was concerned.

‘Anyway, you’re a sport, Dad, if you’re goin’ to take us to Brighton,’ said David.

‘It’s a promise,’ said Tommy.

Vi gave him a fond look. Tommy always counted his blessings, and his three children were high on his list. Tommy, Boots and Sammy, locked into business though they were, were all family men. Vi put that down to Chinese Lady’s influence.

‘What’s for afters?’ asked Alice, and that put a stop to any more talk about weddings that were only for grown-ups.

‘Well, hello, and how’s yourself, Mrs Hyams?’ said Bill Chambers the following morning.

Bless the man, he’s diddled me, thought Lilian. She’d heard him and his milk bottles, and she’d waited for him to continue on before leaving her
house
. But he’d come back, leaving his float a fair way up the street towards the market. There was a bottle of milk in his hand.

‘Is it safe, leaving your horse and cart up there?’ she asked, looking, in a spring costume and brimmed hat, a fair old treat to Bill’s discerning optics.

‘Safe as houses,’ he said. ‘Black Bess won’t move an inch until I tell her to. I forgot Mrs Worboys ordered an extra pint. That’s the third time I’ve been forgetful lately. Something’s come over me. Might I presume to say I admire your titfer, Mrs Hyams?’

‘How kind,’ said Lilian. ‘But I must get on or I’ll be late for work.’ It wouldn’t have mattered. Sammy let her enjoy flexible hours. All he was concerned with were her imaginative designs. ‘Nice to have seen you, Mr Chambers.’

‘Might I have the pleasure of takin’ you to the Leicester Square cinema this evening?’ asked Bill. ‘Call for you about seven, shall I?’

‘My life, this is so sudden,’ said Lilian.

‘Would you say so?’ asked Bill, very admiring of her well-dressed look. ‘I mean, following our afternoon in Regent’s Park, where if I might presume to mention it, you looked as good as Fay Compton, is an invitation to the West End flicks sort of unexpected?’

‘Well, perhaps not,’ said Lilian.

‘Natural consequence,’ said Bill, ‘so I’ll knock about seven this evening. Won’t keep you any longer now. Best wishes to you, Mrs Hyams.’

He’s surrounding me, thought Lilian.

‘Have I told you about my milkman?’ she asked Tommy later at the factory.

‘The one who fancies you?’ said Tommy.

‘He says he doesn’t know what’s come over him.’

‘Sounds like he fancies you for real,’ said Tommy.

‘Do me a favour,’ said Lilian. ‘Look, I know I’m not the Duchess of York, but a milkman, I ask you.’

‘You mentioned that before,’ said Tommy. ‘What’s wrong with a milkman?’

‘All right for a dairymaid, I suppose,’ said Lilian. ‘This one’s coming round tonight to take me to the Leicester Square cinema.’

‘Well, treatin’ you to a cinema seat won’t mean you’ll ’ave to marry him, will it?’ said Tommy.

‘Not unless he overpowers me while the big film’s on,’ said Lilian.

‘Take a bit of doin’ on a back seat, that would,’ grinned Tommy. ‘Unless he’s an acrobat.’

‘Here, d’you mind?’ said Lilian. ‘Stop making me feel weak-minded.’

‘Hello, he’s got you thinking, ’as he?’ asked Tommy.

‘What about?’ asked Lilian.

‘Acrobatics,’ said Tommy.

‘Call that funny, do you?’ said Lilian, and chucked her paint rag at him.

However, nothing happened in the cinema about which Lilian could complain to the manager. Bill was a perfect gentleman. On the way home on a bus, she asked him if he realized they didn’t speak the same religious language. Bill said he’d never been bothered by that sort of thing. Lilian said she was Jewish.

‘Fanatical, like?’ said Bill.

‘Not all that much,’ said Lilian, ‘but Rabbi Solomon keeps an eye on me occasionally.’

‘Oh, is that the tall bloke in a bowler hat and a black beard?’ asked Bill.

‘That’s him,’ said Lilian.

‘Friend of mine,’ said Bill, ‘I deliver his milk and eggs. A kind bloke. I can’t see him comin’ round to boil me in oil just for takin’ you to the flicks once or twice a week. By the way, have I had the pleasure of bein’ told your first name?’