The Cuckoo Child (27 page)
‘I’ll put some blacking on your boots,’ Dot said eagerly. ‘Me dad once said he could tell a man’s cir – circumstances by the state of his boots.’ To Corky’s amusement, everyone immediately looked down at their own feet. Emma wore neat high-heeled court shoes, Nick wore brown brogues, and Dot sported ancient black plimsolls with holes in both toes – they had belonged to Fizz a short while ago. Corky’s own boots were strong and sturdy – the staff at Redwood Grange knew it was false economy to buy cheap footwear – but they were covered in dust and scuff marks. Dot was right, a bit of blacking and some elbow grease would improve them no end.
‘A hot bath would be prime,’ Corky said eagerly. ‘You are good, Emma. I never thought how nice it was to be able to get clean all over until I moved into that perishin’ shed and couldn’t do more than give myself a cat’s lick and a promise. I’ll be as quick as I can and then, if you don’t mind, Nick, I’ll walk back to your lodgings with you. I’ve done my best to get to know the area, but I’ve never come across Virgil Street.’
Nick said that this was a good idea, adding that they could plot as they went, and Corky disappeared into the bathroom. When he emerged again, wrapped in a towel and very clean indeed, Nick handed him his clothes and ushered him into the living room to dress. ‘Emma’s making everyone a meal. I was going to suggest that you and I nipped into the Corner House but I guess it’s not wise to be seen together in public at this stage. Walking along the street is different, but having a meal together . . . anyway, Emma’s doing new potatoes and frying ham and eggs, and there’s a lovely big trifle for afters.’ He grinned at Corky. ‘So I graciously said we’d be pleased to stay for a meal, because it doesn’t do to disappoint a lady.’
‘That sounds grand,’ Corky said contentedly. When Nick had left, he went and sat in the chair by the window, half turning it so that, if anyone happened to look up, they would not see him dressing. Church Street was crowded, as it always was, though the shops had shut long ago. Corky eyed the people, telling himself that the smartly dressed ones were making their way to theatres and cinemas, others would be having a meal out, and the really ragged man, who was slouching along on the opposite pavement, was probably intending to entertain the cinema queues with juggling tricks, or something similar. He saw that the man had a mouth organ sticking out of his jacket pocket, and was congratulating himself that he had guessed correctly when he noticed something else. There was a doorway opposite, the doorway of an extremely expensive toy shop into the window of which he and Dot had often peered. Standing well back in the doorway was a man, and it seemed to Corky that he was staring straight up at the flat. It was difficult to make out much detail because the doorway was in deep shadow, but his unwavering gaze made Corky nervous and he drew well back from the window. Sitting on Emma’s small sofa whilst he put on his socks and boots, he could still see the man’s head, though he thought that he himself must be out of sight. He watched all the while he struggled into his things, and the man remained motionless. For a moment, Corky actually wondered if he was looking at a cigar store Indian, but then he remembered that the shop was a toy shop and did not sell tobacco. When he was fully dressed, he crossed the room idly, as though merely moving from one seat to another, and managed to take a really good look at the watcher just as a street lamp in the road outside flickered on. It must have surprised the man for he moved his head and Corky saw the glint of his eyes and the quick, involuntary withdrawal even deeper into the doorway.
Then there was a bang on the door behind him and it shot open. Dot’s voice was querulous. ‘I thought it were women what took hours and hours to dress, not fellers! The grub’s on the table and it smells awful good, but Emma said we must wait for you, so just you get a move on, old Corky, ’cos me belly’s flappin’ against me backbone, and if I don’t get outside o’ that grub, I’ll probably faint clean away.’
‘I’m ready, I’ve been ready for ages,’ Corky said untruthfully. ‘But wait on, Dot, there’s a feller in the doorway opposite, watchin’ the flat. He’s not took his beady eyes off of this window ever since I first spotted him. Take a look, see if you knows him.’ Dot would have walked straight across to the window, but Corky pulled her back with a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t let him see you,’ he hissed. ‘Creep over on all fours with just your eyes above the level of the window sill. I don’t recognise him but I’m pretty sure it ain’t Rathbone. See what you think.’
Dot, grumbling mightily, did as she was told, and after a few moments of intense scrutiny she crawled back to where Corky was squatting on the carpet. ‘I think you’re right and there is somebody watching the flat from Venables’ doorway,’ she admitted. ‘But Corky, it could be
anyone
; it could even be a feller waitin’ to meet a girl, because fellers hate to be seen hangin’ around, particularly if they think the girl’s going to let them down.’
anyone
; it could even be a feller waitin’ to meet a girl, because fellers hate to be seen hangin’ around, particularly if they think the girl’s going to let them down.’
‘He’s too old to be meeting a girl,’ Corky objected, then wondered why he had said such a thing. He would have said he could see almost nothing of the watcher, yet there was something about the man which made Corky sure he was nearer forty than twenty.
The pair of them were still squatting on the carpet and peering at the watcher when Nick appeared in the doorway. ‘What the devil are you two playing at,’ he said wrathfully. ‘It’s like ten green bottles; first Corky disappears into the living room and doesn’t come out, then I send you, Dot, to fetch him, and neither of you reappear. And there’s poor Emma trying to keep the potatoes hot and the eggs from going hard.’
Both Dot and Corky had turned to stare up at him, but as they scrambled to their feet Corky said urgently: ‘We wasn’t just messing about, honest to God we wasn’t. There’s a feller opposite what’s been watchin’ the flat ever since I came in here. He’s difficult to see but now that the street lamp’s lit – hang on, don’t just walk across or he’ll spot you.’
Nick shook his head. ‘No he won’t, not with a street lamp blazing down on him and us in darkness. Which doorway did you say?’
Corky began to point it out, then stopped short. The man had gone, disappeared as completely as had the necklace. ‘But he
was
there and he was watching the flat too, wasn’t he, Dot?’ Corky said frustratedly. ‘I’m pretty sure it weren’t old Rathbone – well, it wouldn’t be – but it were a big man, and not a young one either, ain’t that so, Dot?’
was
there and he was watching the flat too, wasn’t he, Dot?’ Corky said frustratedly. ‘I’m pretty sure it weren’t old Rathbone – well, it wouldn’t be – but it were a big man, and not a young one either, ain’t that so, Dot?’
Dot agreed that it was but Nick, hustling them through to the kitchen, seemed neither impressed nor perturbed. ‘He was probably waiting for his girlfriend,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Why should anyone watch the flat? From what Emma has told me, she only sits in the living room for an hour or so each evening, and the only other room which overlooks Church Street is her bedroom. Since no one knew we were spending the evening here, what good would watching the place do? The shop’s been robbed, remember, and Emma pays protection money to stop the thieves striking again. So why should anyone waste their time watching her flat?’
Hearing it put like that, Corky began to think that perhaps he had been mistaken after all. Yet though he agreed with Nick that he must be letting his imagination run away with him, a nasty little niggle of doubt existed in his mind. There seemed no logical reason for anyone to watch the front of the premises, but perhaps the man had not fancied skulking in the narrow jigger. There was certainly nowhere to hide round the back of the shops. At this point in his musings, they entered the kitchen and Nick told Emma, briefly, what the youngsters had been doing. Emma’s eyes rounded. ‘You’re probably right about the thieves not meaning to tackle my shop again,’ she said, beginning to dish the food on to four large dinner plates. ‘But suppose they really are planning another burglary? They haven’t done every shop in Church Street by a long chalk, you know. Mr Dibden sells antiques – he’s three doors away – and some of his stuff is extremely valuable. There’s a little oil painting in the window, by someone fearfully famous, I can’t remember his name, but I know the price tag is enormous. Perhaps he’s watching Dibden’s. I remember someone saying – was it you, Nick? – that thieves watch a property for weeks and weeks before robbing it. That way, they get to know the shopkeeper’s habits and routine and can choose the best moment to carry out the burglary.’
Nick nodded. ‘You might be right at that, Emma.’ He sighed deeply. ‘This whole situation is growing stickier and stickier. I think we’ll have to keep our eyes peeled for anyone hanging about in Church Street both after the shops have closed and during opening hours, and quite frankly, I don’t see how the four of us can do it.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, Nick,’ Emma said at once. ‘For a start, no one is going to hang about in the doorway of a shop which is open for business; that really would be suspicious. Someone might walk up and down, I suppose, but once they’ve been back and forth two or three times they’re going to be pretty conspicuous, so I can keep an eye out from the shop for anyone doing that. After six, I’ll keep popping back and forth between the living room and the kitchen. But I’m afraid it means you’ll have to leave me off the rota for watching Rathbone’s place.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Nick said easily. ‘The three of us can manage that. Pass the sauce, please, Corky; if there’s one thing I love it’s nice new potatoes with a drop of Flag sauce on the top.’
By the time Corky returned to the churchyard, he had accompanied Nick almost all the way to his lodgings, and knew he would be able to find the house the next day without difficulty. He waited his moment to climb over the wall, and then began to pack his meagre belongings into his old carpet bag. Fortunately, it was another mild night, but even so, he did not pack his thin blanket. Instead he wrapped it round himself and curled up, choosing the corner which the early sun struck first. He had removed his outer clothing and laid it carefully on a cardboard box which he had been using as a sort of bedside table, then glanced around the shed, almost regretfully. This place had been good to him, in its way. If it hadn’t been for the shed, he would never have met Dot; never have become involved in the exciting events which now occupied most of his waking thoughts. Worst of all, he and Nick Randall would have gone their separate ways, never knowing that the other was no more than a mile away.
I like Nick, Corky told himself drowsily, just before he fell asleep. I like all of ’em, Emma and Dot, and even that little Sadie. When we find who Rathbone’s partner is, we’ll be able to pounce; I bet our names will be in the newspapers, and our photographs too, and we’ll be on the wireless because they’ll be bound to want to interview us and hear how we done it – caught the bad guys, I mean. I’ll have to think up a new name for myself else the staff at Redwood Grange will be up here like a dose of salts. I’ll call myself Jones, or Brown, or something. It’ll be grand to be famous!
And whilst he was still wondering what name he should call himself, he fell asleep, and slept till morning.
Chapter NineDot made her way home in a leisurely fashion for she was in no particular hurry to get back to the house in Lavender Court. When she did get back, she walked straight into trouble. As she crossed the yard, Sammy and Lionel shot out of the kitchen, Sammy calling over his shoulder as he did so: ‘I told you we’d gorra go. If our Li is goin’ to get a job like mine when he’s old enough, he’s gorra take the Sat’day job and I told Mr Swithin we’d go round to his house for half past eight.’
There was a roar from the kitchen, then Aunt Myrtle’s voice called plaintively: ‘Now, fellers, be fair, it won’t take you a minute . . .’
But it was too late; Sam and Lionel had vanished. Dot made her way into the kitchen rather apprehensively. She hated family rows and clearly there was one in progress at this very moment. Dick and Alan sat at the table looking scared as their parents bawled at one another, or rather Uncle Rupert bawled at Aunt Myrtle, who was crying steadily, tears dripping down her cheeks. Uncle Rupert looked dreadful, grey-faced and sickly, with eyes like red hot coals. Dot noticed that every now and then he would tremble violently, shaking so much that the mug in his hand spilled its contents on to the floor. There was a meal on the table, though no one seemed to be eating, and Dot recognised the pie she had helped to make, though there was very little of it left now.
‘I tell you it was your fault; it weren’t nothing to do with me,’ Uncle Rupert kept repeating, stabbing a shaking finger at Aunt Myrtle. ‘I been on the wagon – well, nearly on the wagon – for weeks now, ’cos bleedin’ old Rathbone told me he wouldn’t employ no drunks and the money he pays me makes up for the rotten little screw they call a wage at McCall’s. But now I’ve lost that, thanks to you and your bleedin’ twins, an’ I don’t mean to lose me job at Rathbone’s, so you’ve gorra go round there an’ tell ’im I’ve ate something bad an’ won’t be in for a day or two.’ He turned furiously and noticed Dot for the first time. ‘And where d’you think you’ve been, gaddin’ off just when we need you?’ he asked aggressively. ‘I told your aunt she’d gorra get round to Rathbone’s toot sweet, because there’s a decent bit o’ money hangs on the butcher not findin’ out McCall’s have give me me cards. But you’re only a kid; Rathbone don’t like kids. Dammit, Myrtle, you’ve gorra go.’
‘I’d go if I could,’ Aunt Myrtle wailed. She lifted up the hem of her long dark skirt to reveal an ankle swollen to the size of a football. ‘If you hadn’t give me a kick what’s likely broke me ankle, then I’d ha’ gone round all right, ’cos I need every penny you earn to keep everyone clothed and fed. But I can’t so much as put this foot to the ground, so how do you ’spect me to stagger round to Rathbone’s, answer me that? Anyway, I don’t reckon McCall’s will sack you just because you fell down the iron stairway; why should they? It ain’t no skin off their noses, if you see what I mean. And they’ve seen you drunk afore, many a time.’ She fished a rag out of her sleeve and blew her nose noisily but made no attempt to stem the tears.
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