On Mother Brown's Doorstep Read online

  ‘Soppy ’a’porths,’ said Sally and cycled on.

  Freddy just went careering around the back streets, having promised his mum and Mr Greenberg too not to tussle with trams and buses in the Walworth Road. Trams always come off best, said his mum. And Mr Greenberg said bikes were valuable as business goods, but boys were valuable to their families.

  Pedalling from Rodney Road into Orb Street, Freddy spotted Cassie. She was meandering along and singing to herself. With a tyre-hissing swerve, Freddy crossed to her side of the street and stopped.

  ‘Watcher, Cassie.’

  ‘Oh, ’ello,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Like me bike, do yer?’ said Freddy.

  ‘Crikey, is it yourn?’ breathed Cassie in awe.

  ‘Not ’alf,’ said Freddy, ‘it’s a present from me eldest sister. She’s wealthy, yer know. Well, she is a bit.’

  ‘Oh, does she wear furs?’ asked Cassie. ‘I ’ad an aunt once who wore furs. An’ jewels. An’ she ’ad ’er own carriage with four white ’orses. Only she fell on ’ard times and ’ad to go an’ do the laundry for a wicked uncle.’

  ‘Rotten ’ard luck,’ said Freddy. ‘Did it turn ’er hair white?’

  ‘Oh, no, she ’ad lovely gold ’air,’ said Cassie, ‘and ’er wicked uncle tried to cut it off. ’E chased ’er all round the laundry room. Only ’e couldn’t see where she was in all the steam, and ’e fell in the great big laundry tub.’

  ‘Did ’e? You sure ’e did, Cassie?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and it boiled ’im all over,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Did it drown ’im as well?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘Oh, no, ’is servants got ’im out,’ said Cassie.

  ‘And hung ’im on the line?’

  ‘I think they ’ad to,’ said Cassie, ‘he was all soppin’ wet. Still, me aunt did say he was sort of different after that. Is it really yer own bike?’

  ‘Yes, like a ride?’ said Freddy. ‘You can sit on the carrier be’ind me.’

  ‘Oh, could I?’ Cassie was aglow with pleasure.

  ‘Yes, come on,’ said Freddy, and held the bike steady. Cassie perched herself astride the wire carrier.

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s all wiry,’ she said, ‘’ave yer got a little cushion I could put in me knickers?’

  ‘I dunno, you girls don’t ’alf ’ave soft bums,’ said Freddy. ‘I suppose us blokes ought to carry cushions around, only we don’t. Never mind, Cassie, use this.’ He took his soft cap off and handed it to her. Cassie unperched herself and with no more than two or three facile movements she lodged the cap in the seat of her knickers. Then she frowned.

  ‘It’s all lumpy,’ she said.

  ‘Look, Cassie, as me mate you ain’t supposed to complain,’ said Freddy. ‘Me old mate Daisy never complained not once.’

  ‘I ain’t complainin’,’ said Cassie, ‘I’m just sayin’, that’s all. I’m just sayin’ it’s a bit lumpy.’

  ‘Well, try it,’ said Freddy, and Cassie perched herself astride the carrier again. ‘’Ow’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it don’t feel ’alf so lumpy now,’ said Cassie.

  A boy came up.

  ‘What’s she doin’ on yer bike?’ he asked.

  ‘Sittin’,’ said Freddy.

  ‘You ain’t supposed to give girls bike rides. Get ’er orf, and I’ll ride.’

  ‘She’s me mate, Alfie Gibbons, and you ain’t,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Bleedin’ cissy,’ said young Alfie Gibbons.

  ‘’Ere, Cassie, ’old me bike while I roll me sleeves up,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Oh, you goin’ to ’ave a duel?’ asked Cassie in excitement.

  ‘No, I ain’t, I’m just goin’ to fatten ’is ’ooter,’ said Freddy, who had a lot of his mum’s equability but couldn’t stand being called a cissy.

  ‘Ain’t you got a sword?’ asked Cassie, off her perch and holding the bike. ‘Me dad ’ad lots of swords once and ’ad lots of duels. ’E ’ad one once with a French duke. On ’Ampstead ’Eath. Dad cut ’is ’ead off.’

  ‘Cor blimey,’ said Alfie Gibbons, ‘she’s yer mate? She’s as daft as old Ma Simmonds, who ain’t got no teef, eiver.’

  ‘Right, put yer dooks up,’ said Freddy, sleeves rolled up and muscles flexed. Cassie’s eyes grew big. It was the first time a boy had threatened to fight a duel on her behalf. Street kids were approaching, sensing an up-and-downer.

  ‘I just remembered, I got to do some errands for me mum,’ said Alfie Gibbons, and made tracks for his home in Stead Street.

  Freddy rolled his sleeves down and Cassie said, ‘Oh, ’e didn’t give you a chance to bash ’im.’

  ‘Still, it saved ’im goin’ ’ome with a flat ’ooter,’ said Freddy. ‘Come on, let’s ’ave our ride.’

  Once again Cassie perched herself astride the carrier, Freddy’s soft cap cushioning her bottom, and away they went. It was Cassie’s very first bike ride and she pictured herself being carried away on a white horse by King Arthur, the horse galloping and six wicked uncles chasing after them.

  Around the back streets Freddy cycled, but could hardly believe his ears when Cassie, coming out of her dreams, suddenly said, ‘I’m ’ungry’. They had just passed the shop in Rodney Road that sold boiled sheep’s heads for sixpence, or half a one for fourpence.

  ‘Well, if yer don’t mind, Cassie, I ain’t stoppin’ to buy yer any sheep’s ’ead.’

  ‘Ugh, I don’t want no sheep’s ’ead,’ said Cassie, ‘I was just sayin’ I’m ’ungry, that’s all.’

  ‘Could yer wait till next time I see yer?’ said Freddy, turning into Charleston Street. ‘Then if I got a bit of pocket money on me I’ll buy yer a toffee-apple.’

  ‘Oh, I like toffee-apples,’ said Cassie, legs swinging, hands holding on to Freddy. At the end of Charleston Street, he let the bike bump gently up on to the pavement and rode along the path separating St John’s Church from the vicarage. This time he could hardly believe his eyes. It was that big bloke again, the one with a flapping overcoat and hollow staring eyes. He was striding straight towards them.

  Henry Brannigan hissed with rage. A bloody bicycle and two bloody kids riding on it. Those kids, the ones who’d been in his way before. Look at that girl, she had her legs stuck out, curse her. She was bad luck, if any kid was. But he refused to stop, he came barging on, keeping to the measured stride that ensured he trod on no lines.

  Freddy wavered and veered. The man, glaring, brushed the bike as he bruised his way by. The machine fell over, and Cassie and Freddy toppled and sprawled.

  ‘Oh, yer rotten great elephant!’ yelled Freddy.

  ‘Bloody bikes, bloody kids, ridin’ on pavements, I’ll ’ave the rozzers on the pair of yer,’ said Henry Brannigan in a growling roar, and strode on.

  ‘I bet me bruvver Will ’ud kick ’is teeth all the way down ’is throat,’ said Freddy. ‘You ’urt, Cassie?’ He helped her up.

  ‘I don’t like ’im,’ said Cassie, brushing herself down, ‘I bet ’e’s someone’s wicked uncle, I bet ’e tramples people to death under ’is ’orses, I bet ’e rides six ’orses at once.’

  ‘Yes, but are you all right?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘Yes, course I am, I just fell over, that’s all. Me sister Annie fell over last week and ’urt ’er knee.’

  ‘That was when me bruvver Will met ’er,’ said Freddy, examining his bike for dents.

  ‘Yes, ’e looked at ’er, an’ that was what made ’er fall over, she said.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Cassie, ’ow could anyone fall over just by bein’ looked at?’

  ‘Well, she could see ’e was a lion tamer,’ said Cassie, ‘that was what done it.’

  ‘’E ain’t a lion tamer, ’e’s a soldier,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Yes, ain’t ’e ’andsome?’ said Cassie. ‘I expect ’e’ll get a job one day servin’ the King an’ Queen with their Sunday teas. They always ’ave strawberry jam with their Sunday teas, did yer know t
hat, Freddy?’

  ‘I suppose I know it now,’ grinned Freddy.

  ‘Can we do more ridin’?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘D’you like me bike, then?’

  ‘Not ’alf,’ said Cassie, ‘an’ yer cap’s ever such an ’elp.’

  ‘All right, we’ll do mote ridin’ till our suppers,’ said Freddy. ‘Lucky there ain’t no dents in me bike.’

  ‘Your cap’s got all creased, lovey,’ said Mrs Brown when Freddy returned home alive and unscratched.

  Freddy, taking his cap off, gave it a critical look, then banged it about on his knee.

  ‘Yes, well, it’s been in Cassie’s bloomers,’ he said.

  ‘It’s what?’ said Will.

  ‘It’s what?’ yelled Susie.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘That blessed boy, you can’t believe ’im, can yer?’ said Sally.

  ‘Bein’ ’is dad, I want to believe ’im, but I ain’t sure I ’eard ’im right,’ said Mr Brown.

  ‘I dunno what yer all fallin’ about for,’ said Freddy. ‘Cassie rode on me carrier an’ used me cap for a cushion, and it ain’t my fault girls ’ave got soft bums.’

  Sally had a fit, Susie shrieked with laughter, Will grinned all over, Mr Brown rolled his eyes and Mrs Brown said, ‘It’s best to say bottoms, Freddy love, specially in company. Now let’s all sit down and ’ave supper.’

  ‘Wait a tick,’ said Will, ‘I’d like to know who stuffed your cap down Cassie’s whatsits, Freddy. Was it you, or did Cassie manage it herself?’

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ gasped Sally, ‘I’ll fall ill.’

  ‘’Ere, can you see me doin’ a thing like that?’ protested Freddy.

  ‘Not without usin’ my imagination,’ said Susie.

  ‘Cassie did it ’erself,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Well, I suppose some part of the fam’ly honour’s been saved,’ said Will.

  ‘I’m still goin’ to be ill,’ said Sally.

  ‘It’s a corkin’ bike, Susie,’ said Freddy, ‘I really like yer for it.’

  ‘Me too for mine,’ said Sally.

  ‘Well, if we could all sit down now?’ said Mrs Brown, and they all took their places at the table for rabbit stew, highly succulent and flavoursome.

  Mr Brown had brought an evening paper in and was sitting on it. It contained the news that the dead girl had been strangled, that the scrap yard in which her body had been found used to be owned by Collier and Son of Bermondsey and was now the property of Adams Enterprises of Camberwell. The pathologist had given her age as twelve at the time of death. This had enabled the police to narrow the field in respect of missing persons, and the police were interviewing a Bermondsey family whose daughter had disappeared thirteen months ago. They were also making enquiries in other directions.

  They were, in fact, giving beery Mr Collier and his equally beery son a hard time.

  Susie asked her dad how he was getting on in Bermondsey.

  ‘Well, we’re ’eld up a bit on account of ’aving to sort a lot of things out before we can start doin’ any business,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll do it, Dad,’ said Susie, ‘you’re a good old sorter-out. Sally, don’t forget that on Saturday afternoon you’re comin’ with me to our Brixton shop for a fittin’. We’re meetin’ Sammy’s nieces Rosie and Annabelle there.’

  The fittings were for Susie’s bridal gown and the bridesmaids’ dresses.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t forget that, Susie,’ said Sally. ‘I could cycle there on me new bike, if yer like.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t, lovey,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘we can’t have you cyclin’ in all that traffic.’

  ‘I don’t mind takin’ ’er, Mum,’ said Freddy, ‘she can ride on me carrier, like Cassie did.’

  ‘With a decent cushion down her whatsits,’ said Will.

  Hysterics ran around the table, but stopped when they reached Mrs Brown, who said, ‘No, Freddy love, you’re not ridin’ any bike to Brixton, either.’

  ‘There’s a murder been done down Bermondsey way,’ said Mrs Queenie Watts, who lived with her husband in Brandon Street and had her brother, Henry Brannigan, as a lodger. She was reading her husband’s evening paper.

  ‘There’ll be a nasty one done ’ere in a minute,’ said Stan Watts from the scullery. He was regarding the sink. It was full of washing-up. ‘There’s two days’ dirty dishes out ’ere.’

  ‘Oh, I ain’t been feelin’ up to things recent,’ said Mrs Watts, hairpins loose and a button looking as if it was about to desert her blouse. ‘I think I’m gettin’ an ’eart condition. ‘Ave yer read about this pore young girl that’s got done in?’

  ‘I’ve read it all right,’ said Mr Watts, ‘and I’ll be readin’ tomorrer about you bein’ done in yerself.’

  ‘That ain’t a very nice joke,’ said Mrs Watts.

  ‘It ain’t a joke.’

  ‘Nor’s me ’eart condition, I can feel it gettin’ chronic. Now come in ’ere, Stan, an’ pour yerself a glass of beer. I’ll ’ave one too, it’ll cheer me up a bit. I don’t like readin’ about murders.’

  ‘One thing,’ said Mr Watts, ‘you won’t get the miseries readin’ about your own, you won’t be doin’ no more readin’.’

  ‘Strangled she was, pore girl,’ said Mrs Watts.

  ‘So will you be, Queenie, if I keep comin’ ’ome to this kind of mess,’ said Mr Watts.

  ‘Only twelve she was, did yer read that?’ said Mrs Watts.

  ‘Well, you’re nearly fifty, but that won’t save yer,’ said Mr Watts. Resignedly, he filled the kettle and put it on a gas ring, knowing he’d got to do the washing-up himself. If his wife was lazy, she was still good-natured and always managed to give him a decent supper. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he said, ‘’Enry’s on ’is way out, Queenie. ’E’s always goin’ out, that brother of yourn.’ The front door opened and closed.

  ‘Well, ’e don’t do no ’arm,’ said Mrs Watts, ‘and I expect ’e can enjoy a bit of company in a pub.’

  ‘Not ’im,’ said Mr Watts, ‘’e don’t need company.’

  ‘Course ’e does, Stan, ’e’s still a grievin’ widower and ’e knows ’e can get cheered up in a pub.’

  ‘Always found ’im a funny bloke meself,’ said Mr Watts, ‘and it didn’t do ’im much good losin’ ’is wife Matilda like that. Ruddy ’orrible that was, fallin’ out of a train. Poor old Matty.’

  ‘Don’t talk about it,’ said Mrs Watts, and let a shudder squirm its way through her stout and indolent body.

  Lines at night didn’t count if they couldn’t be seen. It was only when they showed up under the light of shop windows or street lamps that they offered their challenge. It was then that Henry Brannigan had to step carefully. He sometimes had horrible dreams, dreams in which he trod on a pavement line and then had bad luck rushing at him in the shape of howling red-eyed wolves. In the nightmarish dreams he ran like a madman, the animals at his back, and every dream always finished with him running until he fell off the edge of the world into a black void. His plummeting fall jerked him awake and brought him out of his nightmare.

  He went out frequently at night to escape the solitude of his room. He liked walking, he liked to use his long vigorous stride to eat up the pavements, knowing the lines that couldn’t be seen didn’t matter.

  It was damned dark tonight, with no moon and the starry sky blanketed by heavy clouds. The patches of light at intervals caused him to watch for the visible lines. Approaching a pub that cast faint light, he knew a few lines would show up. A man appeared, coming towards him. Henry Brannigan judged they would meet in the faint light. Damnation. It was always a challenge to him not to falter or check, so he kept going, eyes searching for the lines he knew would be visible, even if only faintly. The approaching man had a stride as determined as his own. Curse him. Calamity loomed. Then the pub door opened and a woman in a large hat and a long coat came out. It caused the approaching man to change step and to leave the pavement. It got him out of Henry Brann
igan’s way at a moment when lines appeared and he needed to lengthen his stride. He was able to do so freely, and a sigh of relief escaped him.

  ‘’Ere, ’alf a mo’, dearie.’ The woman was at his back, and his feet were in darkness again. He stopped. He owed her a favour, although she didn’t know it. He turned. The faint light reached out to make her face visible. She was handsome after a fashion, but she was tarted up with paint and powder.

  ‘What d’you want?’ he asked.

  ‘Make me an offer, lovey.’

  He realized what she was, but he still owed her a favour. It wasn’t often that someone’s action was helpful. Usually it was the other way about. He parted his unbuttoned coat, thrust a hand into his pocket and drew out a silver coin, half a crown.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and gave it to her. Her hand closed over it, and its weight and its feel told her its value. She had had a blank evening, and no-one had even bought her a drink. She liked a drink, just one. She knew that a lot of drink didn’t help a woman’s looks, and she needed her looks. At thirty-eight she had to take care of them.

  ‘Kind of yer, lovey,’ she said, smiling up into his dark face, ‘but can yer make it five bob? I’ve got a nice flat and you can stay till midnight, if yer like.’

  ‘I don’t go with women,’ said Henry Brannigan, who would already have gone on his way if he hadn’t felt that fate required him to be friendly as well as grateful. ‘Out of respect for me late wife.’

  ‘Oh, yer poor man, but what did yer give me this ’alf-crown for, then?’ asked Madge Simpson, who’d been on the game for five years and knew how to keep an eye open for the coppers.

  Henry Brannigan wasn’t going to explain. People were bleeding idiots. None of them understood. That coroner hadn’t understood. What a man had to do, he had to do.

  ‘You ’ard-up?’ he said to the woman.

  ‘Who ain’t?’ said Madge Simpson.

  ‘Well, keep the ’alf-crown.’

  ‘You don’t want nothing for it, lovey?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yer a gent,’ said Madge. ‘Mind, I ain’t fond of takin’ something for nothing, I ain’t come down to plain beggin’ yet. ’Ere, come ’ome with me, anyway, an’ keep me company for a bit. I’ll make us a pot of tea and a sandwich, it’s one of them evenings when customers don’t seem in the mood.’