The Lodger by Mary Jane Staples Read Free Book Online Page A

got thievin’ ’ands for a copper, ’Arry, that’s me best crate.’
    â€˜Well, I like you for lettin’ me have it,’ said Harry. She emptied the cookers into it. Harry was a popular bobby, and straight as they could come. ‘I also want a dozen bananas, a dozen oranges, two pounds of dates, a couple of lettuce, two pounds of tomatoes and six pounds of potatoes. Oh, and give me three pounds of those wallopin’ onions.’
    â€˜You feedin’ an orphanage?’ asked Ma.
    â€˜Just stockin’ up,’ said Harry.
    She supplied him with the best she had, putting everything into the crate. He paid her and carried the crate away. He did a little more shopping, then searched the crowds for an obliging young confederate. He spotted just the right face, cheerful, cheeky, talkative and well-known to him. Bobby Reeves, the sixteen-year-old son of Mrs Gertie Reeves, who ran a second-hand clothes stall. Cap on the back of his head, blue jersey belted around his waist, trouser cuffs a little frayed, Bobby showed a ready grin to the world.
    â€˜Here, Bobby, can you do me a favour?’
    â€˜You bet,’ said Bobby, as they met on the less crowded pavement. ‘Well, we’re both Bobbies, like, don’t yer reckon, guv? And you were kindly obligin’ to me dad, that time he minded a sack for some geezer out of the goodness of ’is jam tart. You come along an’ give him a talkin’ to, and he only got – ’
    â€˜Yes, he got off with a warning.’ Harry smiled. Bobby had what was known as the gift of the gab. ‘Listen, I’ll give you tuppence if you’ll take this box of stuff to a house in Charleston Street. It’s from the Salvation Army.’ Harry had chalked the words on the side of the crate. ‘It’s for a Mrs Wilson, number fourteen. Hand it in. Say it’s with the compliments of the Salvation Army. It’s a bit heavy.’ He deposited the load into Bobby’s arms. The boy, tall, slim and strong, embraced it and held it to his chest. He whistled at its weight.
    â€˜Might I ask yer to place it on me bonnet, guv, which is superior to me chest, which might get splinters in it.’
    â€˜Good idea,’ said Harry, and lifted the crate onto Bobby’s capped head. Bobby balanced it and held it in the fashion of a young costermonger, with one hand. Experienced costermongers used no hands. Harry put two pennies into the boy’s trouser pocket. ‘Much obliged, Bobby.’
    â€˜Me too, for the copper coins, guv. Here, have yer been after that bloke that done in – ’
    â€˜We’ll catch him,’ said Harry. ‘Off you go.’
    â€˜I’m on me way,’ said Bobby, and off he went, the crate balanced, his walk brisk and confident. That was a lad who would get on, thought Harry.
    Maggie was getting supper, doing fried potatoes with bacon scraps bought cheap from the grocers when the front door knocker was hammered. Trary answered it. A boy with a wooden box on his capped head gave her a grin and a look. Then another look. Then an admiring whistle.
    â€˜Crikey,’ he said, ‘where’d you come from?’
    Haughty brown eyes took on the challenge of cheeky blue eyes.
    â€˜I happen to live here,’ said Trary loftily. ‘Might I enquire what you think you’re lookin’ at?’ She had the gift of the gab too, and a girl’s gift of the gab at that.
    â€˜I dunno,’ said Bobby, ‘not ’aving had the pleasure before. All right, what’s yer monicker?’
    â€˜Excuse me, I’m sure,’ said Trary, ‘but I do not tell my name to cheeky boys with boxes on their heads. And kindly don’t bash our door in when you come knockin’. My mum don’t like our door bashed in.’
    â€˜Me hand slipped,’ said Bobby, ‘and this here box is only on me head because I wasn’t able to get it into me pocket. It’s