The Lodger (8 page)

She made up her mind to accept Mr Bates.

‘Five shillings,' she said.

Mr Bates sat up.

‘Five bob?' he said. ‘Mrs Wilson, that's a giveaway costin'. Like to show me the room?'

‘I'd be pleasured,' said Maggie, and led the way to the upstairs back room. Mr Bates, following her, noted the sway of her skirt, the glimpse of a petticoat hem and fine ankles. If Maggie was short of new clothes, if everything she had was past its best, she was very attached, in the way of many women, to wearing clean apparel. Monday washdays were long days of work for her. The upstairs back was, to Mr Bates, singularly clean-looking, the brass and iron bedstead shining, the bed itself covered with a patchwork overlay. There was a gas ring mounted on a metal stand on top of a four-feet mahogany cupboard that contained crockery and utensils. There were two upright chairs, a small table, a small wardrobe, and a basin and pitcher on a little marble-topped table. And there was still room to swing a cat.

‘Well, well,' said Mr Bates, ‘this looks like home from home to me. Five bob for all this, and a fireside as well? Can't be right, Mrs Wilson, it's a doddle at five bob. I've seen a few lodgings in my time, believe me, and my opinion is you're cheatin' yerself. Let's call it seven an' six, how's that?'

‘Mr Bates, no-one in Walworth pays seven an' six for rentin' just one room,' said Maggie.

‘And why's that, Mrs Wilson?' he asked, looking her in the eye. ‘Because they can't afford it, so you ladies don't ask for it. Five bob's their limit. It's not mine, not for this kind of tidy comfort. I can afford seven an' six, it's worth seven an' six, so that's what I'll be pleased to pay. My motto is fair do's from the start.'

‘Well, seven an' six is more than fair, I must say – '

‘Done,' said Mr Bates heartily, ‘and I hope it won't inconvenience you if I move in now. I brought me bags, you'll have noticed. Well, I had rosy hopes, this address suitin' me just fine.'

‘All right, Mr Bates,' said Maggie, frankly pleased by his generosity and his acceptability. ‘And it's not inconvenient for you to move in now.'

‘You're on, Mrs Wilson, I'll go down and bring me bags up from yer parlour. No, wait, I like to show good faith.' He drew a leather wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket. He opened it. He looked at her, at her facial hollows and the slight rings around her eyes. ‘How about if I pay you monthly in advance, not weekly?'

‘You don't have to do that,' said Maggie. ‘It's a lot, a month's rent, specially at seven an' six a week.'

‘Well, for me first four weeks, let me pay that in advance. I like your kind treatment, an' more so considerin' you had to see me stand up to police questions. There, how's that?' He handed her a pound note and a ten-shilling note. It represented manna in the desert to Maggie. She could pay a bit to Mr Monks now, and a bit of her rent owings as well.

‘That's nice of you, Mr Bates.'

‘You've got children, I reckon,' he said.

‘Yes, that's Trary and Daisy you can hear downstairs in the kitchen. My two other daughters, Lily an' Meg, are out playin' with friends.'

‘You've got four girls? And you're a widow?' Mr Bates looked sober. ‘It's a rough ride, I'll wager it is. Four girls to bring up.' He frowned at what life could do to some people. ‘I've met a few hard luck cases in me time, I don't know I've met more hard luck than yours. If there's anything I can do while I'm here, just say the word, Mrs Wilson. A bit of repairin', or any jobs that don't come easy to a woman, you ask Jerry Bates. You won't find me un'elpful. I can handle tools and suchlike.'

‘Yes, thanks,' said Maggie, ‘but Trary's learned to be useful, an' so 'ave I. Well, I'll let you settle in, then you can meet my girls sometime.'

In his house in Westmoreland Road, Harry was tidying up the kitchen before going to the station. It should have been his day off, but the murder investigation meant compulsory overtime for several men, including himself. He was due at the station at ten-thirty, and would probably have to work through the day. Well, once he'd finished in the kitchen he'd be ready. He'd learned to cope domestically, especially during the times when his mother was too unwell to attend to things herself. To give her her due, she'd been a very good housekeeper, taking a pride in ironing his shirts and collars to perfection, and frequently cooking for him the kind of dishes he was fond of, like toad-in-the-hole, steak-and-kidney pudding, and rich meat stews with dumplings. He was eating in simpler fashion now that he had to do his own cooking. Couldn't beat a woman's touch, not in a kitchen.

He thought of the calls he'd made yesterday, and of the women he'd spoken to about lodgers or husbands or sons. He'd come across nothing that he could offer the CID as a promising lead. He'd met some lodgers, and been told about others. They all had alibis. That was routine work for the CID, checking every alibi. They hadn't taxed his own mind very much. They were in his notebook, but outside his province. What he remembered most about the long day was a woman who had four young daughters and no husband, who was in debt to her landlord and to a moneylender called Monks, a blight. He hoped she'd accepted the box of groceries as a gift from the Salvation Army. He should have told Bobby Reeves not to mention him. Perhaps the boy hadn't.

The girls were all in, having a cup of mid-morning cocoa. Lily and Meg, who'd been out, were given the news that they had a new lodger, a nice cheerful man.

‘The uvver one wasn't nice,' said Lily.

‘Ugh,' said Meg.

‘Mum's got some rent,' said Daisy.

‘Yes, I have,' said Maggie. She had money in her handbag, a whole thirty bob and one and sevenpence besides. And she'd be drawing her weekly pension from the Post Office on Wednesday. ‘I'm goin' down the Lane now, we're goin' to have a nice joint of mutton from the market butcher. A shoulder.' A shoulder of mutton was the cheapest joint. It might have a lot of fat, but she'd serve it up as hot and crisp as she could. Her hungry girls would wolf it down, and the fat would be just what they needed, along with the meat. She'd got potatoes, they'd come with so many other things in that box, including onions. She'd make onion sauce to go with the mutton, and buy a fat cabbage. Her girls could have a real Sunday dinner for a change, a roast. There wasn't going to be time to make an apple pie. She'd make one tomorrow, a huge one. Today, she'd give the girls banana custard, something they all loved.

‘I'll come down the Lane wiv yer, Mum,' said Lily.

‘Me too,' said Meg. Everyone liked going down the Lane, as the East Street market was called.

‘I'll take Daisy to church,' said Trary.

‘Oh, bovver that,' said Daisy.

‘Do you good,' said Trary.

‘I dunno I want to be done good to,' said Daisy, ‘not in church.'

‘I'll iron my best frock, Mum,' said Trary, who had had a conversation with her mother about Mr Bates and the policemen. Mr Bates had proved to be an upright gent with a bit of a twinkle in his eye and a breezy cheerfulness. And he'd insisted on paying seven and six a week rent for his room, and handed over a month's payment in advance. Trary said she hoped he wasn't too good to be true, that after a month he'd start falling behind. Maggie said no, she was sure he wasn't like that. Trary wrinkled her nose, an indication that she hoped her mum didn't get to like their new lodger better than Constable Bradshaw. ‘Yes, I'd best run the iron over it if I'm takin' Daisy to church. It's clean, but it needs a new ironing. I don't want Mrs Nosy Parker saying we can't even afford to iron our Sunday frocks.' By Mrs Nosy Parker she meant Mrs Phillips from next door.

‘No, lovey, we don't want that,' said Maggie, and smiled. She felt Trary might be thinking more about the threat of Bobby Reeves calling for her than about church or Mrs Phillips.

‘Mum, you ought to write that note to Mr Bradshaw before you go out,' said Trary, ‘then I'll take it to the police station after Daisy and me come out of church.'

‘I thought you 'ad this afternoon in mind,' said Maggie.

‘Yes, so's you could dodge that nice boy,' said Meg.

‘What nice boy?' asked Trary aloofly.

‘The one that forgot to kiss yer when 'e left,' said Lily.

‘Oh, that one,' said Trary. ‘He's more like a talkin' parrot than a boy. I really wonder how he got out of his cage.'

‘I'll write the note now,' said Maggie, and did.

Many people in Walworth were preparing to go to church. Caring crusaders like Sidney and Beatrice Webb, devoted to improving the lot of the poor, were sometimes amazed that people struggling to survive went regularly to church, where they were given sermons instead of something like a side of beef. Mrs Emma Carter, whose small pension and small wage helped her to keep her head above water, frequently attended Sunday morning service at St John's, although she disagreed with the Church of England's refusal to give its blessing to women's emancipation. This morning she was eschewing St John's in favour of composing a letter to the suffragettes' leader, Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst, about the escalation of extreme militancy, which Emma thought would alienate the whole country in the end, and do the cause of women's rights no good at all.

At Scotland Yard, Nicholas was studying a large-scale map of Southwark, together with a great many notes. His concentration was not what it should have been. Thoughts of Mrs Carter kept intruding. She hadn't reported to the police station yesterday, which meant she'd had no caller. But there was some man somewhere who'd been looking for lodgings. Not Mr Bates. Someone like him. A description had been issued, although Inspector Greaves had been heavily sarcastic about assumptions, guesswork and the time spent on Bates, a straw in the wind. Nicholas suggested they might come closer to the murderer once they discovered the identity of his victim. It was damned odd no-one had come forward to report her missing from wherever she lived.

CHAPTER SIX

Trary and Daisy were on their way to church. Trary's Sunday frock, a summer one of rose pink, with puffed sleeves, had been carefully ironed by Trary herself. Her mum had bought it second-hand in the market last year, and it just about passed with a push. Trary carried herself along in defiant pride, her Sunday boater on the back of her head. If there were some Walworth girls with frocks still crisp with newness, there were few who could match Trary's proud, springy walk. Little Daisy, in her one worthy pinafore frock, trotted along beside her.

Behind them came Mr Bates, his walk as jaunty as he was himself. Maggie had introduced him to her girls before she went out. As Trary and Daisy entered the little paved pathway to St John's Church at the end of Charleston Street, Mr Bates veered towards Turquand Street, a letter in his hand. ‘Be good, girlies,' he called.

Trary put her nose in the air, and Daisy said, ‘Crumbs, what's 'e mean? You got to be good in church, you can't enjoy yerself.'

‘Oh, you can in a way,' said Trary, ‘if you think of the kind miracles Jesus performed, and the joyous multitudes.' She was proud of ‘joyous multitudes' and other expressions of which she was capable. She liked talking, and she liked hearing herself speak words of several syllables. That boy yesterday, he just talked as if he was the only one who could. He'd better not come round this afternoon and start more of it, or give her any cheek, either.

Outside the church, teenaged boys swooped on her. Trary was a stunner to them, a corker.

‘'Ere, gedorf,' protested Daisy, ‘you're treadin' on me feet.'

‘Well, you just buzz off, Daisy, we'll look after yer big sister.'

‘I can look after myself, thank you, Henry Smithers,' said Trary.

‘Cor, yer a fancy gel, you are, Trary.'

‘Kindly stop smothering my little sister, you're all 'ooligans.
Hooligans.
Come on, Daisy, let's go in.'

‘See yer up the park's afternoon, Trary?'

‘They don't let hooligans in,' said Trary, and took Daisy into the church, collecting some girl friends on the way.

The service to Daisy meant you had to sit, kneel, stand, sing, pray and listen. It wasn't half as good as following a Salvation Army band down the Walworth Road. Trary, however, liked church and loved singing the hymns. And there were moments when she could sit in reverent hope that heaven would be kind to her mum and send her a nice man in place of the one heaven had taken away. That was what the vicar had said at dad's funeral, that a good man had been taken up to heaven.

At the end of the service, after Daisy had fidgeted all through the sermon, she and Trary were out of the church quickly, to avoid getting mixed up with boys again. Trary, coming up to fourteen, didn't have any special boy, mainly because she didn't know any boy she could have a decent talk with. They were all as soppy as daft kids. And some had shiny faces, as if they'd just stuffed themselves, which wasn't exactly appealing to any girl who'd gone hungry with her family for days on end.

‘Come on, Daisy, we'll take mum's note to the police station now.'

‘Crikey, I ain't never been in a police station,' said Daisy.

‘Nor me,' said Trary, ‘but I don't suppose we'll get put in prison, specially after we've just come out of church and more specially that we're not wrongdoers. It's not far.'

Daisy trotted gamely along with her bobbing, spring-heeled sister, their boaters yellow in the April sunshine. They went up through Wadding Street, where kids were running in and out of each other's houses amid the fearsome yells of distracted parents. Older male kids called after Trary.

‘Oi, gel, 'ow's yer farver down in the Old Kent Road?'

‘'Ere, 'ow's yer muvver more like, bet she likes yer, don't she?'