Ben on the Job Read online

‘Yes? Go on!’

  Mrs Wilby looked at Ben eagerly, and he returned her gaze uncomfortably. He was coming to the part of his story he liked least.

  ‘I didn’t git no more aht of ’er that night.’

  ‘I don’t mind when you got it out of her,’ retorted Mrs Wilby, ‘so long as you tell me what it was!’

  ‘Yus—well, see, I’m jest goin’ ter. It was nex’ mornin’. Well, that’s this mornin’, ain’t it? They’d read abart—abart it in the paiper, and Mrs Kenton ’ad gorn orf inter the kitchen in a fit of wot yer might call proper hysterieryonics, leavin’ me and Maudie ter git on with it, as yer might say, and orl of a suddin Maudie tikes a pickcher aht of a drawer, one o’ them noospaiper ones, and puts it unner me nose, and—well, wotcher think it was?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Aven’t yer?’ muttered Ben. He hoped she would. ‘Well, see, mum, I dunno jest ’ow ter tell yer—corse, there mightn’t be nothink in it, on’y if there wasn’t, why did she show it ter me? See wot I mean?’

  A sudden change of expression shot into Mrs Wilby’s face, revealed clearly in the firelight. Ben gathered that she not only saw what he meant, but saw even more, and he watched her with astonishment as she went to a drawer, as Maudie herself had done, and, history repeating itself, brought out another copy of the same picture.

  ‘Was that it?’ she demanded.

  ‘That was the one,’ answered Ben. ‘So now I ain’t got ter tell yer.’

  ‘And you mean that—that Maudie, at Jewel Street, is the girl in this photograph?’

  ‘Tha’s right.’

  There was a long silence. Ben wondered whether to continue or to leave the next step to her, but the next step seemed so long in coming that it was he who broke the silence.

  ‘I’m glad yer know,’ he said; ‘but I’m fair sorry abart it.’

  She looked at him, as though surprised at his expression of sympathy.

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ she replied, and then added lightly, ‘But these things happen, you know.’

  ‘That don’t mike ’em no better,’ answered Ben. ‘Wars ’appen.’

  ‘Are you a philosopher, by any chance?’

  ‘Wot, me, mum? Lummy, no! Yer need learnin’ fer that, but we orl does a bit o’thinkin’, don’t we?’

  ‘Tell me something else you think?’

  ‘’Owjer mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I know. Perhaps I just meant that I find you interesting to talk to.’

  ‘Go on!’ murmured Ben, slightly embarrassed. He had never regarded himself as a drawing-room conversationalist.

  After a moment, she reverted to the picture.

  ‘You know, of course, who the man with Maudie is?’

  ‘Well, mum, I thort I reckernized ’im,’ he answered.

  ‘Particularly as you’d found she knew of this address.’

  ‘That’s right. Two and two’s four, ain’t it? ’As she—bin ’ere?’

  ‘Hardly!’ She added, dryly: ‘At least, not to my knowledge.’

  She returned to the drawer with the picture, dropped it in, hesitated, then took out another and brought it to him. Ben blinked at it.

  ‘The tart!’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes, and you’ve seen the tart—I haven’t,’ replied Mrs Wilby, as she put the compromising photograph back. ‘Have you anything more you can tell me about her?’

  ‘There’d ’ave bin a lot more if things ’ad gorn right.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘See, she works at Woolworth’s—oh, I’ve told yer that—well, any’ow, she does, and afore she goes orf this mornin’ she begins ter git confidenshal like—people does ter me sometimes.’

  ‘I can understand it.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Wot I mean is—yer’ll think this funny arter them pickchers—but wot I mean is, p’r’aps there might be somethink not so bad in ’er once yer got ter know ’er proper.’

  ‘Only the way one generally gets to know her is improper.’

  ‘Wot? Lummy, that’s a good ’un! Yer’ve sed it! Any’ow jest as we’re torkin’ she finds aht she’s laite fer the shop, so orf she goes, sayin’ she’ll tell me the lot when she comes back fer lunch. But she don’t come back. No, the pleece comes back. They comes back twice, ter try and see ’er like they wanted ter see Blake, but it’s a wash-aht with them, sime as it was with me, ’cos she never come back at all.’

  ‘Did the police know she worked at Woolworth’s?’

  ‘Yes, but she never turned up at Woolworth’s.’

  ‘Do you mean—she’s disappeared?’

  ‘Seems like it! And when the pleece is gettin’ on ter me, I thort it was time I disappeared, too, so I did, and ’ere I am, and I’ve only got one more thing ter tell yer, see, it was wot the parrot sed.’

  ‘What parrot?’

  ‘The one they got. See, they got one.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Well, that’s goin’ ter tike a bit of hexplinin’. Parrots pick up wot they ’ears, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So when you ’ear ’em say anythink, it means they’ve ’eard it.’

  ‘You’ve just said that.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Okay. So when this bird sez “Lock it up,” yer’d tike it ter mean there was plenty ter lock up in that ’ouse, wouldn’t yer? But it carn’t pernounce its s’s.’

  ‘This parrot can’t?’

  ‘There wasn’t no hother. But it’s funny abart that, ’cos though it carn’t pernounce ’em at the berginnin’ it can at the hend, like when it sez “Kiss ’er”—well, we won’t go on abart that, see it come in a bit orkward like, but any’ow when it sed “Duck ’im dry”—well, at fust yer thort it was orf its rocker, but arter yer’d got on ter the way it torked and ’ad done a bit of a think like—well, mum, do yer see wot I mean, or doncher?’

  It was just as necessary to get on to the way Ben talked as the parrot, but by this time Mrs Wilby was becoming educated, and she nodded.

  ‘And what did you take that to mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Suck ’im dry,’ answered Ben, obviously.

  ‘Yes, I got that. I was referring to the remark itself. What do you suppose that meant?’

  ‘It mightn’t ’ave meant nothink.’

  ‘In that case, why mention it to me?’

  ‘Gime ter you, mum. I thort the ’im might be Mr Wilby, and that ’e was the bloke—the one, I mean—wot some’un was suckin’ dry.’ He paused uncomfortably. Mrs Wilby’s eyes were fixed on the carpet. ‘I was goin’ ter leave that one ter you,’ he went on, ‘but yer did arsk me, didn’t yer, and p’r’aps I thort wrong.’

  Mrs Wilby continued to gaze at the carpet. ‘If she goes on much longer,’ thought Ben, ‘she’ll mike a ’ole in it!’ Then she got up and walked to the window. Out of the corner of his eye Ben watched her back, wondering what was passing through her mind. Queer, this ’usband and wife business! He couldn’t never get the ’ang of it. When there was all this trouble what did people get married for? Seemed sorter senseless, didn’t it? Besides, if people’d stop marryin’ then there’d be no more people, would there—just trees and fields and birds and things—and trouble would be over. Nice, the world would be then. Nice and restful. Just trees and fields and birds—

  Mrs Wilby turned from the window.

  ‘Did you say the police were after you?’ she asked.

  ‘I shook ’em orf,’ replied Ben.

  ‘What are they after you for?’

  ‘They never worry abart that till they git yer—then they see if there’s a reason.’

  ‘How did they learn you were at the house?’

  ‘They didn’t, not till Mrs Kenton told ’em.’

  ‘I see. And are you quite sure you shook them off?’

  ‘Where are they? Sure as cheese!’

  ‘Then nobody, nobody at all, knows you’re here, apart from myself?’

/>   ‘’Ow could they, seein’ they don’t?’

  Mrs Wilby smiled faintly. It sounded conclusive.

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Ah, now we’re comin’ to it,’ replied Ben. ‘That’s wot we gotter tork abart. I’m s’posed ter be with the Kentons till Blake gits in touch with me, but ’ow is ’e goin’ ter git in touch with me if I ain’t there? So I’ve missed wot ’e was goin’ ter tell me, and I’ve missed wot Maudie was goin’ ter tell me, and if nobody tells me nothink I carn’t do nothink and might as well drop aht. Do yer see wot I mean?’

  ‘Nearly, but not quite,’ answered Mrs Wilby.

  ‘Wot doncher see?’

  ‘Do you want to drop out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well—I was tryin’ ter ’elp yer like, wasn’t I? But I’ve mide a fair muck of it!’

  She regarded him curiously.

  ‘You haven’t answered me completely yet. What I want to know is why you want to help me? Wouldn’t it be safer for you if you did drop out of it?’

  ‘Eh? Oh—yes, I dessay.’

  ‘So I’m still waiting to know your motive.’

  ‘’Oo’s that?’

  ‘Your reason?’

  ‘Oh! Well …’ Suddenly he frowned. ‘No, mum. It ain’t that.’

  ‘Isn’t what?’

  ‘Wot yer was thinkin’.’

  ‘What was I thinking?’

  ‘That’s easy! Yer thort I thort that by stayin’ in I might mike a bit aht of it.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she replied. ‘This may surprise you—perhaps it surprises me, too—but that reason never entered my mind. Yes, if I’d thought that, it would have seemed too obvious to have questioned you about it. Never mind whether you’ve understood what I’ve just said or not,’ she added, noting Ben’s rather puzzled expression; ‘but just tell me what your real reason is, because you know I’m still waiting to hear it. I can’t see why you should want to run into danger for somebody you never met till yesterday. And I’m not asking you just out of curiosity. I really and truly need to know.’

  Impressed by her seriousness, Ben tried to give her the right reply. But he began by asking a question himself.

  ‘Would that be, mum,’ he inquired, ‘becorse yer wanter know ’ow fur yer can trust me like?’

  ‘Well, if you put it that way, you mayn’t be far wrong,’ she responded.

  ‘Okay. I git yer. Well, if yer want the truth, I hexpeck this is the reason, though I ’adn’t thort of it meself not till yer arsked me. Fust, o’corse, I was sorter—well, plumped inter the bizziness, weren’t I? I mean, I walks inter a cellar, and there’s this corpse, and then in comes some’un helse wot don’t look too good, if yer follers me, mum, and—well, there yer are, aren’t yer? Corse, yer’ll say I could of jest telerphoned the pleece and then ’opped it and lef’ it at that. Yus, I could of. But—this is a bit orkerd, but yer askin’ me, so ’ere I am, tellin’ yer—when I see that photo of yer aht of ’is pocket—and don’t fergit, mum, ’e kep’ it on ’im, that was somethink, wasn’t it? Where’ve I got ter?’

  ‘The photograph in Mr Wilby’s pocket,’ Mrs Wilby reminded him, rather unsteadily.

  ‘Yus, that’s right. Well, see—I dunno, but it seemed a sorter shime like, and I reckon I saw a bit o’ red, and so I come along and looked yer up, and the reason I kep’ up arter that was—well, yer was decent ter me, wasn’t yer?—so I hexpeck I sort o’ took to yer. If yer git me.’

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and was about to wipe a perspiring forehead when he changed his mind and put it back. Even a perspiring forehead was better in a lady’s drawing-room than his pocket handkerchief.

  But Mrs Wilby’s handkerchief, more suited to the environment, came out as she turned away from him for a moment and pretended to blow her nose.

  15

  Mrs Wilby Talks

  Ada Wilby had found someone to talk to, and since she was assured of his sympathy, if not of his understanding—for how could a queer, simple, uneducated fellow like this comprehend all the subtle undercurrents of uneasy married life?—she felt that the very difference between them would make him easier to confide in than somebody of her own class. It would be something like thinking aloud to a faithful pet.

  But before she spoke of the things that had lived for so long only in her thoughts she left the room, returning after a few minutes with a loaded tea-tray. Ben’s eyes grew big with surprise and appreciation. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and those generously-filled plates of bread-and-butter and cake were sights for the gods!

  ‘Lummy, mum, this is nice of yer, but yer didn’t ’ave ter do it,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t look as though you mind,’ she replied, ‘and I didn’t do it because I had to.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘I’m ready for a cup myself, although it’s rather soon after lunch.’

  ‘Lunch? That don’t affeck me, mum.’

  ‘Didn’t you have any?’

  ‘Well, see, I orlways gives lunch a miss when I’m slimmin’.’

  She shook her head, as at something beyond her. ‘Please don’t slim this afternoon, or all that bread-and-butter will be wasted.’

  ‘No charnce o’ that, mum,’ murmured Ben, and began the attack.

  When the tea was poured out and Ben well under way, she suddenly put a question which caused his second slice to halt two inches from his waiting mouth.

  ‘Are you married?’ she asked.

  ‘Wot, me?’ he answered. ‘No. Not now I ain’t.’

  ‘But you have been?’

  ‘As a matter of fack, I was once, but ’oo’d berlieve it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Eh? Well, tha’s right. See, it wer’ a long time ago, afore I’d got fixed like wot I am nah.’ As she did not respond at once, memory matured in the little pause, and he added reminiscently: ‘She was a bit of orl right. So was the kid. But, see, they both went.’

  Sympathy entered Mrs Wilby’s eyes as she watched the suspended piece of bread-and-butter complete its interrupted journey to the speaker’s mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, it don’t matter nah, mum,’ replied Ben, stretching automatically for the third slice. ‘And, arter orl, sometimes I thinks that p’r’aps they didn’t miss so much. Once yer aht of it, yer aht of it.’

  She nodded gravely. ‘Well, that’s one view to take. And—of course—nothing came along to spoil the memory.’

  ‘Tha’s right.’

  A question shot into his mind, and while he was deciding not to put it, she guessed it.

  ‘Ask what you were going to,’ she said.

  ‘It weren’t nothink,’ he answered.

  ‘Then must I ask it for you? You were wondering whether anything had come along to spoil my memory?’

  Ben took a bite, to give himself a little more time to find the right reply. Corse, he’d seen that there photograph, and in this rummy job of being her private detective like, he’d had to come across a bit. Jest the same …

  ‘Was that it?’

  ‘That was it,’ he admitted, since there was no way out. ‘But wot I can’t mike aht, mum, is ’ow you and me comes ter be torkin’ like this.’

  ‘Perhaps I can’t make that out, either, but since we are let’s leave it at that. Oh, yes—plenty came along to spoil my memories—and here is something else I can’t make out. How it all happened! You see—’ She paused for an instant, to contend against her last hesitation. She found that, having started, she did not want to stop. ‘You see—Mr Wilby and I began as happily as I gather you did.’

  ‘I got it,’ nodded Ben. ‘And then things went wrong like.’

  ‘But not for a long while. In fact, only recently. A few months ago. Yes, until then I am sure we were much happier than most—and one rather odd thing about our happiness was that nearly everybody thought we weren’t going to be. Including my own family. But—after all—there’s no need to go into that.’r />
  There was no need. It was only recent events that required to be talked of here. But with her eyes on the fire, her mind reverted to those early days which, although centred in universal experience, always seem to possess their special, personal magic which can never be conveyed to anyone else. How, for instance, could one convey the magic of that May morning when George Wilby had plucked up courage to propose to her on a Hyde Park seat? She had not believed he would, for courage had never been his strong point, and she had not been sure that she wanted him to. She moved in a circle that rotated above his own, and she knew that her parents were not too happy about her sudden and rather surprising friendship with this assistant bank manager who had been removed from a Midlands branch to London. Ada Hughes, as she then was, was an only child, and had been designed for a better match. But once the proposal was made, its very simplicity and humility touched her. She discovered an elation which could not have been entirely due to the soft spring sunshine and the song of a robin. She had money, if George had little, and a man who had begun life in a bank need not necessarily end there. Indeed, in a swift and intoxicating survey of all the years that lay ahead of them, she decided that George should not. She would infuse him with her ambition, and instead of dropping to his level, he should rise to hers. So she had accepted him, and in the golden glamour of their confessed affection and the exciting mystery of new horizons, they had walked through their difficulties until they had walked along the aisle to be made man and wife.

  The magic had continued through the honeymoon and the first year. The modest assistant manager’s mind soared into the sky with that of his wife, and he rose in their visions to a high place in the world of finance. Now, twenty years later, Ada saw those visions again in the firelight, and while her queer visitor profited by the silence to pass from his third slice to his fourth, she listened to a voice—her own—saying, ‘Why not, George? If a miner can become an MP, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t aim at it, and with your knowledge of finance—who knows? One day you may become Chancellor of the Exchequer!’

  But after that first year, the ambitious plans gradually died of apathy. They were beyond George’s capacity, and she realised with disappointment that they frightened him. He did not become Chancellor of the Exchequer. He did not even become an MP. He became, by conscientious work and the patient, full exercise of his limited talent, a bank manager minus the prefix ‘assistant’, and a bank manager he had remained; and it was to the credit of both of them that, after her period of disappointment, Ada was able to accept life on the modest pattern it offered, and they continued to be good companions, living in material comfort on their affection and in the hope of the child they never had …