The Cockney Angel (19 page)

Mrs Mason scrambled to her feet and picked up the coin. ‘Well, that’s only fair. You’d best get going then.’

‘If you could just point me on my way?’

‘Turn left at the farm gates and walk to the main road. Turn right and keep on for a couple of miles or so, then take the next right turn. You can’t go wrong.’

After walking for over an hour there was still no sign of dawn, and Irene had stumbled into so many potholes overflowing with ice-cold water that she had lost count. She was thankful that the snow had held off, but her boots were thick with mud, and she had to stop every now and again to scrape off the sticky matting of wet earth and rotting leaves. She came across the main road eventually, although it was little more than a country lane overhung by trees with their interlaced branches forming a dark tunnel. She was not entirely sure that she was going in the right direction for Havering, and she had not seen anyone who might be able to tell her the way. She trudged onwards for what seemed like hours. Her feet were sore, and although there was not much more than a change of clothes in her canvas bag it seemed to grow heavier by the mile.

At last she came to a right hand turn and she almost cried with relief when in the first
streaky
green light of dawn she saw a signpost pointing to Havering-atte-Bower. At least she was on the right track now, and she stopped by the roadside to munch the crust of bread that Mrs Mason had seen fit to give her when she left the farmhouse. It was a bit stale, but tasted good and she was too hungry to be fussy. As soon as she had eaten, she started off again. The stormy night had given way to a pearly dawn and a mist hung over the neat hedgerows and fields. Cows chewed the cud as they lined up at a farm gate, their hides steaming in the cold air as they waited for the cowman to collect them for milking. The air was sharp with the unfamiliar country smells of cow dung and damp earth, but it was not altogether unpleasant.

In the distance Irene could hear sounds of the village coming to life: the striking of a church clock, the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves and the rumble of cartwheels. There were a few scattered cottages now, and wisps of smoke from their chimneys curled upwards into a sky that was the colour of a duck’s egg. She could hear the creaking of a handle as an unseen person lowered a bucket into a well, and the muffled splash as it hit the water. A cockerel was strutting about on the roof of a barn, stopping every now and then to flap its wings and screech cock-a-doodle-do.
Somewhere
in the distance someone was chopping wood. She could hear the rhythmic blows of the axe and the splintering of wood.

At last, rounding a sharp bend in the lane, she saw what could only be Miss Greenwood’s home, the Round House. Set in neat gardens on three sides, the house was more hexagonal than round, but it was impressive nonetheless. The white stucco walls glowed pink in the rays of the rising sun, and the small-paned sash windows glinted and winked at her like an old friend smiling a greeting.

Irene stopped for a moment to catch her breath, and was about to cross the road to knock on the blue-painted front door when a strange-looking person strode round the side of the house. At first Irene thought it was a workman or a farm labourer, but on closer inspection she realised that although the curious apparition wore breeches, gaiters and boots, it possessed a deep bosom and had long grey hair escaping from a battered felt hat. The person was definitely female even though she walked like a man and had a clay pipe clenched beneath her teeth. It was then that Irene recalled Farmer Mason’s description of the eccentric Maude Greenwood.

‘Excuse me,’ Irene called. ‘Miss Greenwood?’

‘Who wants her?’ The voice was gruff, but feminine for all that.

‘Miss Greenwood, I am looking for Arthur.’

‘He’s not here. I told the police that yesterday. I don’t know who you are, boy, but I’m advising you to be on your way or I’ll set the dogs on you.’

Irene looked around and could not see anything larger than a robin perched on a nearby branch, singing its little heart out. She cleared her throat, speaking in her normal voice. ‘I’m not a boy. I’m Artie’s friend, Irene. If he’s here I must see him.’

Miss Greenwood took the pipe from her mouth and exhaled a puff of smoke from her thin lips. ‘Come closer. I can’t see you properly from that distance.’

Irene hurried across the lane and stood by the gate. ‘Is he here? Please tell me.’

‘You say you’re a girl and a friend of my nephew’s, but you could be a police spy for all I know. Take your cap off.’

Irene dragged her cap off her head and shook out her hair. ‘There, you see. Just because I wear breeches doesn’t make me any more of a boy than you are a man.’

For a moment she thought she had offended the strange lady, but Miss Greenwood threw back her head and roared with laughter. ‘So you’re Irene. Arthur’s told me all about you and that rascally father of yours. Come inside.’ She unlatched the gate and held it open,
allowing
Irene to walk past her into the neatly kept garden with box hedges surrounding beds of late-flowering bronze chrysanthemums and clumps of misty-mauve Michaelmas daisies. A pair of small brown and white Jack Russell terriers came hurtling round the side of the house, barking furiously until a word from their mistress silenced them. They approached Irene cautiously, sniffing her boots and staring up at her with button-bright eyes. She bent down to pat their heads. ‘Good dogs.’

‘The boys like you,’ Miss Greenwood said gruffly. ‘That’s good enough for me.’ She strode off in the direction from which she had first appeared, leading the way round to the back of the house where a half-glassed door had been left ajar. She went inside and Irene followed her into a small room lined with shelves on which scarlet geraniums sheltered from the onslaught of winter. Muddy boots, pattens and galoshes lay in a pile on the floor, together with yellowed newspapers and an assortment of small garden tools.

The smell of hot bread wafted through from the kitchen and Irene could just make out a plump woman wearing a white pinafore, with her sleeves rolled up as she pummelled dough on the scrubbed pine table. Miss Greenwood entered the room with the dogs trotting at her heels. She turned to Irene and beckoned
to
her. ‘Don’t loiter in the doorway; I won’t bite. That’s a job for my boys, but they only go for policemen and people they don’t like. Come in and Martha will give you some breakfast. I expect you’re hungry. Boys are always hungry. Oh no, sorry, you’re a girl. Well, come in anyway.’

‘Who is this?’ Martha demanded, glaring suspiciously at Irene.

‘Never you mind, you nosey old crow,’ Miss Greenwood said sternly. ‘Feed the girl and give her a cup of tea while I finish what I set out to do and see to the livestock.’

Irene stood by the door, clutching her cap in her hands. ‘I’d like to see Artie first if you don’t mind.’

‘She could have been sent by the police,’ Martha said, thumping the dough with her floury fists. ‘She’s not from round these parts.’

Miss Greenwood clapped her hands slowly. ‘Go to the top of the class. Of course she’s not from here, you silly woman. She’s a Londoner. The world doesn’t stop at Romford, you know.’

‘Really, I would like to see Arthur,’ Irene said hastily. The relationship between the two women seemed so volatile that she was afraid the argument might escalate into outright war. ‘If it’s no trouble.’

Miss Greenwood went to the fire and knocked the ash from her pipe. ‘He’s not well,
you
know.’ Taking a tobacco jar from the mantelshelf, she proceeded to fill the bowl of the pipe and lit it with a spill from the fire. In between puffs she stared thoughtfully at Irene. ‘He went down with a chill on the first night here, but it’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Says you,’ Martha murmured darkly. ‘I’d send for the doctor if it was my nephew out of his head with fever.’

‘Well he ain’t,’ Miss Greenwood said tersely. ‘Go and see him, girl. He’ll perk up I’m sure when he sees a friendly face. One look at Martha’s vinegar features and the milk turns sour.’

‘Haven’t you got anything better to do than bait me, Miss Maude?’ Martha demanded, punching the lump of dough.

‘I’m going, you old warhorse,’ Miss Greenwood retorted amicably. ‘I’ll leave you to look after Arthur’s young friend.’ She left the kitchen with the dogs trotting at her heels.

Martha seemed to have forgotten Irene’s existence, or else she was deliberately ignoring her, and Irene struggled to curb her annoyance. ‘Er, Miss Martha, if you could just tell me where to find Artie, please? I won’t trouble you no further.’

‘I still say that he needs the doctor. You might be able to convince the stubborn old fool, but she won’t listen to me.’

‘Just tell me where he is.’

‘Hiding him in the cellar when the police came wouldn’t have done him much good. I told her she should turn him over to them. If he’s done wrong he should be punished, but she says he’s her own flesh and blood and anyway she can’t abide the police. She don’t take to people and they don’t take to her. I reckon I’m her only friend. We get along fine.’

Irene wasn’t going to be drawn into this and she forced her lips into a smile. ‘I’m sure. Now Arthur is – where?’

Martha jerked her head in the direction of a doorway on the far side of the kitchen. ‘Through there, up the stairs to the second floor and it’s the door facing you. Don’t be surprised if he don’t recognise you. I don’t think he’d know his own mother right now.’

Following her directions, Irene left the kitchen and found herself in a hallway with a cantilevered staircase rising in a spiral through the centre of the house. She could see up to the top floor where light flooded down from a domed window in the roof. The polished oak stair treads echoed to the sound of her footsteps as she ran up two flights of stairs to the galleried landing. She entered the room, blinking as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. A glimmer of light shone through the curtains and she went over to the window
to
draw them back. The pale November sun flooded the small room, which was sparsely furnished with a brass bedstead, an oak washstand and a tallboy. She moved closer to the bed, where Arthur lay tossing and turning and muttering feverishly. His dark curls clung damply to his forehead and his skin was pearled with beads of sweat.

‘Arthur,’ Irene whispered. ‘Artie, can you hear me?’ When there was no response, she went to the washstand and tipped water from the jug into the bowl. Taking a flannel from the towel rail, she dampened it and went back to the bed to bathe his face. It was obvious that he was very poorly indeed, and Martha had been quite right: Arthur was in desperate need of professional attention. She did not want to leave him in this state, but she had little alternative. She thought of ringing the bell for Martha, but decided against it. The contrary old woman would probably ignore any summons, however urgent.

Irene retraced her steps and returned to the kitchen, where Martha had cleared the table and was setting it for breakfast. She looked up as Irene entered the room. ‘Well? What did I tell you?’

‘You were quite right, Martha. He is very sick and needs a doctor.’

Martha’s crab-apple faced cracked into a
triumphant
smile. ‘I knew I was right. She wouldn’t believe me because she’s a stubborn woman who’s never had a day’s illness in her whole life. Now me, I’m a martyr to me bunions and me delicate stomach. Any upset and I’m up all night with bellyache something chronic, so I know what it’s like to suffer.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it, but we must send for the doctor at once. Tell me where to find him and I’ll go, now.’

Martha shook her head. ‘Best not. You’d cause a stir in the village and no one is supposed to know that the young gent is here. If the local constable finds out he’ll have his mates round here like flies round a dog turd. I’ll go and you can tell her when she comes home that it was all your idea.’ She waddled over to a wall rack hung with hats and outdoor garments. She selected a thick woollen shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘Sit down and have some food. There’s porridge in the pan on the hob and tea in the pot. If Miss Maude comes back afore I do, make sure she gets some vittles inside her. She forgets to eat unless I tell her to.’ With that, Martha stalked out of the kitchen, leaving the door swinging on its hinges. Irene had little alternative but to follow her instructions and, despite everything, she enjoyed a hearty breakfast.

She had just scraped the bowl clean when Miss Greenwood breezed into the kitchen, tossing her hat onto its peg with a deft stroke. ‘Where is the old crone?’

Irene rose to her feet. She was not sure how to take Maude Greenwood. She had begun to realise that her bark was definitely worse than her bite, and that her relationship with her servant was not the one portrayed by their constant sniping at each other, but she did not want to upset the lady. ‘I asked her to fetch the doctor for Artie. I know I took a lot on meself, but he’s really sick, Miss Greenwood. I’m afraid he might die.’

‘Die? Nonsense, girl. Don’t talk rubbish. We Greenwoods are made of sterner stuff than that. It’s just a chill and he’ll be up and about in a day or two. I don’t want word to get about that he’s here or we’ll be swamped with policemen, poking their noses in where they don’t belong.’

‘Martha knows that, ma’am. She wouldn’t let me go for the doctor for just that reason.’

‘Oh, well, it seems that the old fool does possess a modicum of sense after all.’ Maude sat down at the table and reached for the teapot. ‘I expect this is stewed and undrinkable. Do you know how to brew tea, missy?’

Irene nodded her head. ‘Yes’m.’

‘Then please do so, and you can help me to
a
bowl of porridge. If I don’t eat something it will upset the old dragon and she’ll nag me all day.’ Maude stared at Irene, frowning. ‘I like you, girl. You may call me Miss Maude.’

Irene accepted this honour with a nod of her head, and busied herself making a fresh pot of tea and serving Miss Maude with her breakfast. She kept glancing at the clock but the hands seemed to be stuck in the same position while she waited for Martha to return with the doctor. When she eventually walked through the door, followed by a small man dressed all in black, Irene could have cried with relief.