The Cuckoo Child (10 page)
Having got out of the wheelbarrow, Corky did not much want to get back in. Since he was getting his night eyes in the darkness of the shop, he began to look around him. He saw tables, chairs, sofas and china cabinets, little stools and beautiful ornaments, and realised that he had been wise to remain still. One unguarded move could send a figure on a pedestal crashing to earth, making a huge noise and breaking what might well be a valuable piece. Still looking round, he jumped when he saw a pair of large eyes staring down at him. For a moment, his heart fairly thundered, then he relaxed. It was a model Red Indian, standing almost six foot tall, with a great feathered headdress and a bow and a quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder. Corky had been holding his breath but now he let it out in a long sigh of relief; what a fool he was! The only living thing in the shop was himself.
Even as the thought entered his mind, there was a movement in the shadows and, whilst he was still telling himself that he was imagining it, something soft and warm brushed against his leg.
Corky could not help himself. He gave a squawk of fright and shot through the door into the storeroom, eyes starting and every hair on end. There were three men seated round the table, all of whom turned startled eyes upon him, but Corky was past caring. ‘There’s – there’s a bleedin’ Indian. I thought he were a wax one, like, but he’s come alive. He grabbed me leg,’ he gabbled. ‘I dussent stay in there though I know you said not to disturb you. I ain’t scared of the dark but I am scared of that there Indian.’
Mr Perkin was looking flustered but he pulled himself together pretty quickly, considering. ‘You stupid young bugger, it were only the cat,’ he said. ‘That there Indian’s a cigar store Indian; don’t you know nothin’, boy?’ He turned to his two companions. ‘It’s all right, fellers, this ’ere’s me nephew, Ben, what’s been doin’ a bit o’ fetchin’ an’ carryin’ for me. You needn’t be afraid he’ll blab.’ He turned back to Corky. ‘Me an’ these gentlemen’ – he waved a hand to indicate his two companions – ‘have just concluded a bit of business, so if you run upstairs to Mrs – to your Aunt Bertha, I mean – and ask her to give you a bottle an’ three glasses, we’ll conclude our deal over a drink.’
Mr Perkin ushered Corky firmly back into the shop, closing the door behind him. As he did so, he remarked: ‘Young fool! I reckon the cat must ’ave followed you in, ’cos I never let ’im in the shop. Off with you.’ He indicated the stairs behind the counter which led to the flat above. Then he returned to the back room, shutting the heavy oak door.
Corky climbed the stairs and was met at the top by a good-looking, dark-haired woman in a black dress. He began to explain his errand and she nodded, saying in a puzzled tone: ‘Aye, I’ll fetch the wine and the glasses, but who the devil are you? I disremember my husband mentioning there was a lad involved.’
‘I’m not involved; Mrs Perkin of Herbee Place asked me to deliver a table . . .’ Corky began, but got no further.
‘Oh aye, Wilf said she were lookin’ for a likely lad,’ the woman said. She put a small round tray, on which rested three glasses and a squat bottle of dark brown liquid, into Corky’s hand, then accompanied him down the stairs, illuminating the way with a small lamp. As soon as he reached the storeroom door, she turned and left him. Corky was wondering how he would open the door without putting the tray down, when he realised that it was on the latch. He slipped through the doorway and Wilfred immediately got to his feet and took the tray. ‘Get back up to your aunt,’ he said. ‘We’ve just about done here; I’ll be up myself presently.’
Corky was sitting in the kitchen of the Perkins’ flat when Wilf came in. ‘You nearly landed us all in hot water, young fellow-me-lad,’ he said. ‘Still an’ all, it weren’t your fault . . . nor mine, neither, for that matter. What
is
your name, by the by?’
is
your name, by the by?’
‘I’m Corky,’ Corky said. ‘And if it’s all right by you, Mr Perkin, I’ll get off now, but I ’spect I’ll be seein’ you again, ’cos your ma says there’s a deal o’ stuff to be transported from her spare bedroom to your stockroom; ain’t that right?’
‘Aye, you’re right there,’ Wilfred Perkin agreed. ‘And you ain’t a bad lad; you’re a good lad, in fact. My ma does know how to pick ’em, I’ll say that for ’er. You never so much as blinked when I called you Ben and said you were me nephew, an’ I reckon if I’d been standin’ near that Indian in the dark an’ the cat had brushed against me, I’d have squawked just as loud as you did.’ As he spoke he was ushering Corky down the stairs and across the darkened shop, steering him unerringly back to the wheelbarrow.
‘Glad I were OK, Mr Perkin,’ Corky said, seizing hold of the handles of the wheelbarrow and beginning to trundle it towards the back door. He was actually in the cobbled yard when Mr Perkin dug his hand in his pocket and produced a handful of coins. He selected one, hesitated, then added another, both of which he handed to Corky. ‘There y’are,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s a bit more than I’d normally pay, but we’ve had quite a night of it, eh, young feller?’
‘Thanks, mister . . . I mean, thanks, Mr Perkin,’ Corky said. He did not need to look at the coins to know that he held sixpences in his hand: a veritable fortune!
‘You’d best call me Wilf; everyone else does,’ the older man said, beginning to close the door. ‘G’night, young shaver.’
‘G’night, Mr – g’night Wilf, I mean,’ Corky said and heard the other chuckle as he closed and bolted the door.
All the way home, Corky pondered over the events of the evening. There was something fishy going on, he was sure of it. It didn’t take a genius to see that Wilf was a pretty sharp character, and as for the two men who had visited him, Corky thought he had never seen a more villainous couple. They were large men, respectably dressed, but one had had his back to him, so he had been unable to see his face, only the back of a thick red neck. The man facing him, however, the really fat one, looked familiar; he was sure he had seen him before. A tradesman, perhaps? Or someone working on the railway, or a tram driver? Corky could not remember, but the man had clearly not recognised him, so perhaps it was just his imagination. Yet there was definitely something . . . he could not explain it, even to himself, but he had been glad when the men had left and had found himself hoping he would never meet them again.
If Wilfred had been an honest man, of course, he would not have pushed Corky into the darkened shop when his visitors arrived, nor would he have lied to them, saying that Corky was his nephew Ben. And then there was old Mrs Perkin of Herbee Place, who had been so kind to him. She had pretended to befriend him simply because he was an orphan, as she was, but Mrs Wilfred Perkin had said that her mother-in-law was looking for a ‘likely lad’, so the old lady’s friendliness and generosity had not been spontaneous. She must have known he was an orphan because of his horrible uniform, guessed that he was also a runaway, and thought that someone homeless, friendless and penniless would be an ideal go-between to assist herself and Wilfred in whatever deep game they were playing.
By the time he reached Herbee Place again, Corky had made a difficult decision. He had hoped to stay with Mrs Perkin for weeks and weeks, maybe for months, but he had now decided that this would be dangerous. He was horribly aware that he knew very little of the world outside Redwood Grange, but he had always been an avid reader and knew that there were people in London’s underworld who were receivers of stolen goods, and only a little thought had convinced him that Wilfred and his mother were both handling property which was not rightfully theirs.
However, it would not do to let the Perkins realise that he knew what was going on. He would go along with it whilst he had to, but as soon as he had sufficient money to get away, get away he would. He had no intention of informing on the Perkins – it would be far too dangerous – but before he left them, he thought he might leave a note explaining this and pointing out that, if they pursued him, he might be forced to talk to the coppers, simply in his own defence.
When he got back to Herbee Place, Mrs Perkin was waiting up for him. She beamed as he entered the kitchen and cut a big slice off a rich-looking fruit cake, then poured him a mug of hot cocoa. ‘I were gettin’ right worried,’ she told him, wrapping her hands round her own mug. ‘Did you get lost? I thought you’d just leave the table with my Wilfred an’ come straight back. What kept you?’
Corky thought that her tone was a little sharp and found himself wondering whether she had guessed that he had guessed; but it had been a full and exciting day and he was too tired for much more thought. ‘Customers came in while I was unwrapping the table so I had to wait in the shop,’ he explained. ‘It was all right and I didn’t get lost, not goin’ or comin’ back, and Wilf – he told me to call him Wilf – gave me a bob for me trouble,’ he ended.
Mrs Perkin’s small eyes widened. ‘A shillin’ – a whole shillin’!’ she breathed. ‘Well, I reckon he were pleased with you. I reckon he thought his old ma knew a thing or two when it come to findin’ a good lad. Now, eat up your cake an’ finish your cocoa an’ get yourself up the apples an’ pears, and when you come down in the mornin’ I’ll ’ave a cooked breakfast waitin’ for you.’
Chapter FourCorky had not intended to stay indefinitely with Mrs Perkin, but he was sorely tempted to do so when he realised the joys of living in a house with one other person, when that person seemed to enjoy your company and did everything she could to make your stay a pleasant one. Also, Wilf paid Corky well for errands run and it wasn’t only gradually emptying old Mrs Perkin’s spare bedroom; there were other jobs for which a lad was useful. These jobs were not so well paid because they took place in daylight and were, Corky was sure, legitimate business. A man and his wife would come into the shop, admire a dining table and four upholstered dining chairs, and perhaps agree to pay extra to have these items delivered to their home. Corky would then take a handcart from Wilf’s shed in the back yard, help to load the items upon it, and trundle them to their new owners’ abode. Wilf paid him for these duties on a distance basis, though once or twice Corky had been forced to point out that half a mile uphill was a deal harder than half a mile down, and though Wilf always laughed, and exclaimed that his new delivery boy could get blood out of a stone and expected money for nothing, he usually paid up. After this had happened half a dozen times, however, Corky began to wonder whether Wilf thought that he was discreetly blackmailing him, which was most certainly not the case. Though Wilf was always genial towards him, Corky was wary of the older man, so he decided to accept the money he was given in future without mentioning hills or heavy traffic.
Almost imperceptibly, the days and the weeks passed, and Corky realised that he was truly happy for the first time in his life. Mrs Perkin might have offered him refuge for her own reasons, but what was wrong with that, after all? She had wanted help of a sort which he could provide, and in return she gave him a roof over his head, food in his belly, a comfortable bed and, above all, the feeling that he was accepted for himself, liked and trusted; that he could turn to her in need as she occasionally turned to him. He often ran errands for her, doing her shopping, accompanying her when she visited relatives in order to give her an arm when she needed one, and generally behaving almost like the ‘kind o’ nephew’ which she sometimes called him.
After he had lived with her for six or seven weeks, Corky knew that she had no nephews, and no nieces either. Her husband had been the youngest of a big family, but death had claimed them all save for two spinsters who lived in Hammersmith, and since she visited them at least once a week, Corky knew the journey across London quite well. At first, he had demurred over entering their house, had said he would amuse himself in the neighbourhood until Mrs Perkin was ready to return, but she had insisted that he stay with her, and he soon learned to be useful to her sisters-in-law, carrying water, coal, or anything else which was heavy, or laying a fire in a little-used grate. Such small acts were always rewarded, sometimes by an apple, or a piece of cake, or a penny to spend at the shops, but what Corky really valued was the feeling of being one of the family, accepted without question. At first, he had been awkward, shy, afraid to look around him in case his interest was labelled curiosity, and resented. Then he became easier with them, laying the table for a meal, peeling potatoes to save rheumatic hands the task, making a pot of tea as a matter of course the moment they entered the house. The old ladies were fond of a game called Pelmanism, or Pairs, which called for a good memory, and one of the sisters liked another card game, cribbage, and pounced on Corky as soon as he entered the kitchen, demanding that they begin a game at once because she knew ‘my dear sister Aggie’ would be happy to lay the table and get out the food for high tea.
As summer progressed, Corky settled deeper into the niche he had made for himself and became more and more reluctant to leave. His little store of money was growing nicely and he had no idea how he would earn more if he were to abandon the Perkin family. And of course, every extra day that he stayed, it became harder to leave. He truly felt that the Perkins were his family, that he belonged for the first time in his life. He was even prepared to pretend that there were no stolen goods hidden away in the spare bedroom, and when Wilf began to give him articles to take back to Herbee Place, telling him to put them well to the back of the existing stock and not to return them to the shop until he gave the word, which might not be for many months, he always accepted this without comment and tried to tell himself that there could be a perfectly honest reason for such behaviour, though in his heart he knew otherwise.
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