Sons and Daughters Read online

  ‘Either,’ said Fat Man, and the rest of the discussion was conducted in whispers. It ended with the Fat Man slipping a piece of paper to the Parson. The writing on it, however, wasn’t his own. He avoided carelessness.

  ‘Just let me know when it’s done,’ he said.

  ‘There’s the fee, of course,’ said the Parson. ‘And the advance. In oners.’

  ‘Fifty,’ said Fat Man.

  ‘That’s the advance? Good, you’ve got a deal.’

  ‘Don’t push me,’ said Fat Man. ‘Fifty’s the fee, a pony’s the advance.’

  ‘Now you haven’t got a deal,’ said the Parson, and finally removed his cigar, a mere butt, and squashed it in the ashtray. Still without moving his lips, he said, ‘And I’m off to the pictures to see Grace Moore in One Night of Love. I like a nice romantic story.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Fat Man.

  ‘Did I hear a hundred?’ said the Parson.

  ‘No, you bleedin’ didn’t, not from me,’ said Fat Man.

  ‘Pity.’ The Parson began to rise.

  ‘All right, a hundred.’

  ‘Fair enough. Pass the advance. In oners.’

  That done and the deal settled, the Parson disappeared.

  ‘You can’t stop some of ’em being greedy, guv,’ said Large Lump.

  ‘Finish your cocoa and let’s get out of here,’ said Fat Man. ‘I’m bloody cooking.’

  ‘I’ve finished it, guv,’ said Large Lump. ‘You offering me another pint?’

  ‘Not here. Get up and help me out of this chair. It’s stuck to my backside.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The two families took the ferry from Rock to Padstow on Thursday morning. They had a mere two days left of the holiday, and it was the accepted thing to buy little gifts for their kin. Padstow was the place. Padstow was still quaint and unspoiled, its few gift shops offering Cornish pottery and little items made of the mineral serpentine, indigenous to the county.

  The twins and the girls, of course, had been promised ice-cream cornets. The ferry carried them all across the estuary, and they landed at the harbour. There they saw the fishing boats, the boats that had sometimes sneaked out during the war to brave the German menace that had cut down fishing all over the seas of Europe.

  The families wandered around the harbour walls, watched fishermen repairing nets, and Boots and Polly let the twins know they couldn’t go for a ride on any of the boats.

  ‘But I could do fishing,’ said James.

  ‘And I could catch shrimps,’ said Gemma. And after a moment, ‘Not crabs. They’ve got huge claws.’

  ‘I bet you’d both get all smelly,’ said Paula.

  ‘Fishing’s not smelly,’ said James.

  ‘The boats are,’ said Paula. ‘They’re bound to be.’

  James took the bull by the horns and called down to a fisherman.

  ‘Mister? Mister?’

  ‘I be here, young ’un.’

  ‘Your boat’s not smelly, is it?’

  ‘Well, I be a tiddly bit that way myself at times,’ said the ruddy-faced fisherman, ‘but they old boat, she be smelling as sweet as my old lady’s roses.’

  ‘There, it’s not smelly,’ said James to Paula.

  ‘Well, something is,’ said Paula, ‘there’s a fishy smell all over the place.’

  ‘It’s not me,’ said Phoebe.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Gemma. ‘Nor Mummy, is it, Daddy?’

  ‘Very unlikely,’ said Boots. ‘I equate your mother with the roses of the fisherman’s wife.’

  ‘It’s the harbour,’ said Susie, ‘the tide’s out.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Sammy, ‘everyone was beginning to look at me.’

  ‘Shall we do the shops?’ said Polly.

  ‘Let’s do the shops,’ said Susie.

  ‘Kids,’ said Sammy, ‘we’re going to do the shops.’

  ‘Shops? Oh, hell,’ said young James.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Polly.

  ‘You’re not supposed to say things like that,’ said Gemma to her brother.

  ‘Where’d you get it from?’ asked Paula.

  ‘From Dad,’ said James. ‘And Mum.’

  ‘Black mark for both of you, Aunt Polly,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘We’re still going to do the shops,’ said Susie.

  Half an hour later, they were all dispersed, some in some shops, some in others. Jimmy was looking at a little serpentine brooch, thinking of Aunt Lizzy, who had an old-fashioned liking for brooches.

  ‘Hello.’

  He turned. A blonde girl, wearing a thin yellow sweater and saucily brief dark blue shorts, was smiling at him. He recognized her, while noting the sweater did wonders for her bosom.

  ‘You’re Fiona,’ he said.

  ‘You’re Jimmy.’

  ‘First time we’ve met in a shop.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Think so?’ said Jimmy. ‘What’re you doing in Padstow?’

  ‘Looking it over with the girls. The fellers have all gone fishing for mackerel. You can catch any amount in these waters. They’ve gone with a boatman, just for five bob each.’

  ‘What will they do with what they catch?’ asked Jimmy, who’d gone out last year with Sammy and Boots on just such an excursion.

  ‘Give it to the hotel kitchen, and they’ll put mackerel on the menu,’ said Fiona, ‘but who wants to talk about fish?’

  ‘Fishermen?’ suggested Jimmy.

  ‘Funny man,’ said Fiona. ‘Where d’you live?’

  ‘South London,’ said Jimmy, and blonde Fiona wrinkled her nose.

  ‘That’s a long way from Epsom,’ she said.

  ‘Why does Epsom get a mention?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘It’s where I live,’ said Fiona.

  ‘And where they run the Derby,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Who wants to talk about horses?’ said Fiona.

  ‘Jockeys?’ suggested Jimmy.

  Fiona giggled.

  ‘I think I like you,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’re very likeable yourself,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘So there you are,’ said someone from the open door of the gift shop, and in came Jenny and two other girls, Jenny in her RAF blue top, a short skirt and her round straw hat. ‘What’s the idea, giving us the slip?’ she asked Fiona.

  ‘I’m innocent,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Tell me another,’ said Jenny. ‘That’s Jimmy you’re talking to. Hello, Jimmy, are you having an assignation with Fiona?’

  ‘Just a chat,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Sweet,’ said one of the other girls. Chloe.

  Boots appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Jimmy, we’re off to the ice-cream parlour,’ he said.

  The girls turned and saw a tall, tanned man in a white cotton shirt, with light summer slacks of blue draping his long legs, a smile touching his fine mouth.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’ve been temporarily delayed.’

  ‘I see four good reasons for the delay,’ said Boots, and Chloe positively sighed at how appealing he was.

  ‘Are you Jimmy’s father?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘His uncle,’ said Boots.

  ‘What a spoilsport,’ said Matilda, ‘he didn’t tell us he had an uncle like you. I’m Matilda, that’s Jenny, that’s Chloe, and she’s Fiona.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ smiled Boots. ‘You’ll excuse us?’

  ‘So long, girls,’ said Jimmy, and he and Boots left, pointing themselves in the direction of ice cream.

  ‘Well, would you believe?’ said Chloe.

  ‘What a darling man,’ said Matilda.

  ‘I could live in an Arabian tent with him,’ said Chloe.

  ‘You’d get sand in your filmy Arabian pantaloons,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Still, wasn’t he gorgeous?’ said Fiona. ‘How old d’you think he is, Jenny?’

  ‘Old enough for Chloe,’ said Jenny, and her laugh arrived, putting the sparkle into her eyes.

  ‘
It’s my pleasure to ask if any of you young ladies be going to buy something,’ said the shop proprietor.

  The young ladies vanished.

  In Paul’s office, Lulu was typing out her list of ideas and suggestions for the next propaganda leaflet.

  ‘Ratification, yes, good,’ she said. ‘Brilliant, in fact.’

  Paul was replying to letters, scribbling down his answers for Lulu to type.

  ‘How did ratification get into your notes?’ he asked.

  Lulu looked up from her typewriter, pushed her spectacles back and said, ‘Not in yet. Thinking about it.’

  ‘Unthink it,’ said Paul. ‘Leave it out. Keep the facts simple.’

  ‘What’s wrong with “the ratification of proposed legislations for the nationalization of merchant shipping”?’

  ‘There’s no proposed legislation for that,’ said Paul, ‘and in any case, our leaflets are for the people of Walworth, not for Old Etonians who live around Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘Get you,’ said Lulu. ‘It’s up to us to help educate the people of Walworth.’

  ‘Ratification of proposed legislation won’t educate them,’ said Paul, ‘it’ll make them use the leaflets for wrapping up potato peel and dumping same in their dustbins.’

  ‘You’re a trial to me,’ said Lulu, her horn-rimmed specs glowering at him. She was wearing a white blouse, buttoned up to the neck, and a long black skirt which, seen through the kneehole of her desk, draped her legs and fully covered them. Paul was beginning to wonder if she was knock-kneed or bandy. Or if she had any tent pegs. He grinned. ‘What’s funny?’ demanded Lulu.

  ‘Why do you dress like that?’ he asked.

  ‘Helps men to keep their minds on my political career,’ said Lulu. ‘Listen. How about this for a final slogan? “Support a Socialist Republic.”’

  ‘That’s a slogan for a Labour Party pamphlet, is it?’

  ‘Brilliant, would you say?’

  ‘Barmy,’ said Paul. Someone knocked on the door. Another visitor, he thought. They’d had two this morning. A young couple enquiring about membership. Both now had membership cards, at the cost to each of ten bob. ‘Come in.’

  The door opened and in came Henrietta Trevalyan, looking very pleasant indeed in a white dress trimmed with navy blue, and a cute little navy blue hat.

  ‘Hope I’m not interrupting,’ she said, ‘but as I was passing I thought I’d look in, and someone told me this was your office.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ said Paul, rising.

  Lulu growled, good as.

  ‘Hello, Miss Saunders,’ said Henrietta.

  ‘Close the door when you leave,’ muttered Lulu.

  ‘Pardon? I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I said what nice weather we’re having.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it lovely?’ said Henrietta, and fluttered a winsome smile at Paul. ‘So this is where you do your heroic work for the Young Socialists.’

  ‘I’m no hero,’ said Paul.

  ‘Too right you’re not,’ said Lulu under her breath.

  ‘But you’re working against the odds, Paul,’ said Henrietta.

  ‘Oh, I think the odds will be in our favour,’ said Paul, ‘I’m confident the Labour Party will be voted in again come the election.’

  ‘Due as much to the efforts of lovely young men like you as to boring ministers,’ said Henrietta.

  I’m going to be sick for real this time, thought Lulu, I really am.

  ‘I think you’re overstating the case,’ said Paul.

  ‘No, I’m sure I’m not,’ said Henrietta. ‘One realizes that although we lost so many fine men in the beastly war against beastly Hitler, we now have young men just as fine taking their places. It thrills me.’

  ‘Where’s the sick bucket?’ said Lulu under her breath.

  ‘What’s the reason for all these compliments, Miss Trevalyan?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Oh, simple admiration for your devotion to your work,’ said Henrietta. ‘And do call me Henrietta. Look, it’s just about lunchtime, and I’d like to talk to you. Would you come and have lunch with me somewhere?’

  ‘So that we can talk?’ said Paul.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Henrietta.

  ‘Hope the food chokes both of you,’ muttered Lulu.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Saunders?’ said Henrietta.

  ‘Enjoy your lunch,’ said Lulu who, although not yet nineteen, was already formidable.

  Paul usually ate lunch in the office. Vi, his mum, supplied him with sandwiches and something like a couple of apples, or a salad with apple pie to follow. He had sandwiches today.

  ‘Right, shall we go, then?’ he said to Henrietta.

  ‘How nice,’ said Henrietta.

  Paul left with her, but was back almost at once. He took a lunchbox from out of a desk drawer, and placed it on Lulu’s desk.

  ‘Have my sandwiches as well as your own,’ he said. ‘See you later. Look after the shop while I’m away.’

  ‘It’ll be smashed up by the time you get back,’ said Lulu, specs steaming.

  ‘Tck, tck,’ said Paul, and out he went again.

  Lulu sat glowering for a couple of minutes. Then she got up, crossed to the front of his desk and hitched her skirt and slip high, disclosing a perfect pair of legs in imitation silk stockings. She aimed a ferocious kick at his chair with the hard point of her right shoe. The chair crashed. A leg fell off.

  ‘Good,’ she breathed. ‘Bloody brilliant, in fact.’

  She followed that by placing his lunchbox on the floor and jumping on it until it was a mashed wreck.

  She felt a bit better then.

  Over a salad lunch, Henrietta talked. Paul suspected she had a notion to include him in one of her pet projects. And so it proved. After some minutes of chatting him up, she came to the point and said she would simply love it if he would help her set up a home for lonely old maiden ladies.

  ‘Er, what?’ he said.

  Henrietta assured him there were more than a few such ladies living in a declining state, and that she had an option on a large house for renting in a road off Brixton Hill, with lots of room and a nice garden with two apple trees. Paul said who’d believe it, apple trees in Brixton. He asked who was going to pay the rent. Oh, Granny will see to that, said Henrietta. Does she know she will? Not yet, said Henrietta, but I’ll talk her into it, she’s got oodles of lolly. Giving lonely old maiden ladies a home where they could be jolly good company for each other would touch her heart. And I suppose she could have some of the apples, said Paul. There, I was sure you’d be practical, said Henrietta. Do say you’ll join forces with me.

  Paul said his work for the Young Socialists wouldn’t leave him much time. But think how rewarding it would be, said Henrietta. Paul said he didn’t know much about old maiden ladies. There weren’t any in his family, he said, and how rewarding are they, anyway? Oh, satisfaction at making them happy will be very rewarding, said Henrietta, and couldn’t you spare a little time in the evening, and a little more at weekends? Touching his foot under the table and fluttering her eyelashes, she said they could do a lot together at weekends.

  Blimey, thought Paul, what does a lot mean? A lot of what?

  ‘What will the work entail?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, doing the place up, painting and decorating and all that,’ said Henrietta. ‘Granny, of course, will pay for the paint. Oh, and the furniture.’

  ‘Does she know she will?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Henrietta. ‘I wanted to have this talk with you first.’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ said Paul. ‘Oh, do think in a positive way,’ said Henrietta, ‘I’d be heartbroken if I couldn’t have your support.’

  ‘I’ll think about it, I promise,’ said Paul.

  ‘It’s been a lovely lunch,’ said Henrietta, again playing footsie with him.

  ‘Rewarding,’ said Paul.

  When he got back to the office, he found he couldn’t sit down. His chair had a leg off. />
  ‘Well, Mother O’Reilly, look at this,’ he said.

  ‘Your chair?’ said Lulu. ‘Yes, it fell over. I heard it. Hard luck. Oh, and I gave your lunchbox to a visitor. Unemployed and starving. Victim of uncaring Tory governments.’

  ‘What I want to know is how the chair leg fell off,’ said Paul.

  ‘Rotten workmanship in a capitalist furniture factory,’ said Lulu. ‘Well, that’s my theory.’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ said Paul, and regarded her under lowering brows, so to speak. Lulu’s specs shone with innocence. ‘You hussy, where’s my umbrella?’

  ‘What’s your beef?’ said Lulu.

  ‘Dark suspicion,’ said Paul. ‘It’s going to lead me to tanning you.’

  ‘You lay just one finger on me and I’ll sue you,’ said Lulu. ‘Enjoy your lunch with the winsome witch, did you?’

  ‘Charming girl,’ said Paul.

  ‘Ugh,’ said Lulu.

  ‘Get your hair styled,’ said Paul, and went to borrow or purloin a spare chair from somewhere.

  One day, thought Lulu, I really will bash a hole in his head.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Friday, the last full day in Cornwall for the families. They spent it on Daymer beach, the favourite playground for many holidaymakers in this part of North Cornwall. Paula and Phoebe took the twins and their nets to look for shrimps in the pools among the rocks. Sammy and Susie went strolling over the expansive sands. Polly and Boots sat in the sun.

  Jimmy, going for a swim, met Jenny going for a swim. She was following her group into the sea, but she stopped to say hello to Jimmy.

  ‘You look as if your holiday’s doing you good,’ she said.

  ‘Now you’ve made me worry about how I looked before,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Oh, before, you looked like a well-dressed shirt salesman with an impertinent line of chat specially thought out to slay your lady customers,’ said Jenny. ‘It tickled me.’

  ‘I thought it put your nose in the air,’ said Jimmy.

  Jenny’s laugh gurgled about.

  ‘That was my line of defence,’ she said. ‘Why do men chat up every girl they meet?’

  ‘Well, they hope that one day one girl will fall for it,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘You’ve got a wicked tongue,’ said Jenny. ‘You’ve got lovely hair,’ said Jimmy. Her dark hair was full of springy clusters, dry from salt, sun and sea breezes.