fellow.’
‘Oh, he wasn’t so. . . ’ Rose began and suddenly stopped, staring out through Snow’s window across the parade to the pier.
‘He wasn’t what?’ Ida said. ‘What was it you were going to say?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I just asked if you’d ever forget the little fellow.’
‘It’s gone out of my head,’ Rose said. ‘I’ll get your drink. Does it cost all that—a glass of stout?’ she asked, picking up the two shilling pieces.
‘One of them’s for you, dear,’ Ida said. ‘I’m inquisitive. I can’t help it. I’m made that way. Tell me how he looked?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. I haven’t got any memory for faces.’
‘You can’t have, can you, dear, or you’d have challenged him. You must have seen his picture in the papers.’
‘I know. I’m silly that way.’ She stood there, pale and determined and out of breath and guilty.
‘And then it would have been ten pounds not ten shillings.’
‘I’ll get your drink.’
‘Perhaps I’ll wait after all. The gentleman who’s giving me lunch, he can pay.’ Ida picked up the shillings again, and Rose’s eyes followed her hand back to her bag. ‘Waste not, want not,’ Ida said gently, taking in the details of the bony face, the large mouth, the eyes too far apart, the pallor, the immature body, and then suddenly she was loud and cheerful again, calling out, ‘Phil Corkery, Phil Corkery,’ waving her hand.
Mr Corkery wore a blazer with a badge and a stiff collar underneath. He looked as if he needed feeding up, as if he was wasted with passions he had never had the courage to express.
‘Cheer up, Phil. What are you having?’
‘Steak and kidney,’ Mr Corkery said gloomily. ‘Waitress, we want a drink.’
‘We have to send out.’
‘Well, in that case, make it two large bottles of Guinness,’ Mr Corkery said.
When Rose came back Ida introduced her to Mr Corkery. ‘This is the lucky girl who found a card.’
Rose backed away, but Ida detained her, grasping firmly her black cotton sleeve. ‘Did he eat much?’ she asked.
‘I don’t remember a thing,’ Rose said, ‘really I don’t.’ Their faces, flushed a little with the warm summer sun, were like posters announcing danger.
‘Did he look,’ Ida said, ‘as if he was going to die?’
‘How can I tell?’
‘I suppose you talked to him?’
‘I didn’t talk to him. I was rushed. I just fetched him a Bass and a sausage roll, and I never saw him again.’ She snatched her sleeve from Ida’s hand and was gone.
‘You can’t get much from her,’ Mr Corkery said.
‘Oh yes I can,’ Ida said, ‘more than I bargained for.’
‘Why, whatever’s wrong?’
‘It’s what that girl said.’
‘She didn’t say much.’
‘She said enough. I always had a feeling it was fishy. You see he told me in the taxi he was dying and I believed him for a moment: it gave me quite a turn till he told me he was just spinning a tale.’
‘Well, he
was
dying.’
‘He didn’t mean it that way. I have my instincts.’
‘Anyway,’ Mr Corkery said, ‘there’s the evidence, he died natural. I don’t see as there’s anything to worry about. It’s a fine day, Ida. Let’s go on the
Brighton Belle
and talk it over there. No closing hours at sea. After all, if he did kill himself, it’s his business.’
‘If he killed himself,’ Ida said, ‘he was driven to it. I heard what the girl said, and I know this—it wasn’t him that left the ticket here.’
‘Good God,’ Mr Corkery said. ‘What do you mean? You oughtn’t to talk like that. It’s dangerous.’ He swallowed nervously and the Adam’s apple bobbed up and down under the skin of his scrawny neck.
‘It’s dangerous all right,’ Ida said, watching the thin sixteen-year-old body shrink by in its black cotton dress, hearing the clink, clink, clink of a glass on a tray carried by an unsteady hand, ‘but who to’s another matter.’
‘Let’s go out in the sun,’ Mr
‘Oh, he wasn’t so. . . ’ Rose began and suddenly stopped, staring out through Snow’s window across the parade to the pier.
‘He wasn’t what?’ Ida said. ‘What was it you were going to say?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I just asked if you’d ever forget the little fellow.’
‘It’s gone out of my head,’ Rose said. ‘I’ll get your drink. Does it cost all that—a glass of stout?’ she asked, picking up the two shilling pieces.
‘One of them’s for you, dear,’ Ida said. ‘I’m inquisitive. I can’t help it. I’m made that way. Tell me how he looked?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. I haven’t got any memory for faces.’
‘You can’t have, can you, dear, or you’d have challenged him. You must have seen his picture in the papers.’
‘I know. I’m silly that way.’ She stood there, pale and determined and out of breath and guilty.
‘And then it would have been ten pounds not ten shillings.’
‘I’ll get your drink.’
‘Perhaps I’ll wait after all. The gentleman who’s giving me lunch, he can pay.’ Ida picked up the shillings again, and Rose’s eyes followed her hand back to her bag. ‘Waste not, want not,’ Ida said gently, taking in the details of the bony face, the large mouth, the eyes too far apart, the pallor, the immature body, and then suddenly she was loud and cheerful again, calling out, ‘Phil Corkery, Phil Corkery,’ waving her hand.
Mr Corkery wore a blazer with a badge and a stiff collar underneath. He looked as if he needed feeding up, as if he was wasted with passions he had never had the courage to express.
‘Cheer up, Phil. What are you having?’
‘Steak and kidney,’ Mr Corkery said gloomily. ‘Waitress, we want a drink.’
‘We have to send out.’
‘Well, in that case, make it two large bottles of Guinness,’ Mr Corkery said.
When Rose came back Ida introduced her to Mr Corkery. ‘This is the lucky girl who found a card.’
Rose backed away, but Ida detained her, grasping firmly her black cotton sleeve. ‘Did he eat much?’ she asked.
‘I don’t remember a thing,’ Rose said, ‘really I don’t.’ Their faces, flushed a little with the warm summer sun, were like posters announcing danger.
‘Did he look,’ Ida said, ‘as if he was going to die?’
‘How can I tell?’
‘I suppose you talked to him?’
‘I didn’t talk to him. I was rushed. I just fetched him a Bass and a sausage roll, and I never saw him again.’ She snatched her sleeve from Ida’s hand and was gone.
‘You can’t get much from her,’ Mr Corkery said.
‘Oh yes I can,’ Ida said, ‘more than I bargained for.’
‘Why, whatever’s wrong?’
‘It’s what that girl said.’
‘She didn’t say much.’
‘She said enough. I always had a feeling it was fishy. You see he told me in the taxi he was dying and I believed him for a moment: it gave me quite a turn till he told me he was just spinning a tale.’
‘Well, he
was
dying.’
‘He didn’t mean it that way. I have my instincts.’
‘Anyway,’ Mr Corkery said, ‘there’s the evidence, he died natural. I don’t see as there’s anything to worry about. It’s a fine day, Ida. Let’s go on the
Brighton Belle
and talk it over there. No closing hours at sea. After all, if he did kill himself, it’s his business.’
‘If he killed himself,’ Ida said, ‘he was driven to it. I heard what the girl said, and I know this—it wasn’t him that left the ticket here.’
‘Good God,’ Mr Corkery said. ‘What do you mean? You oughtn’t to talk like that. It’s dangerous.’ He swallowed nervously and the Adam’s apple bobbed up and down under the skin of his scrawny neck.
‘It’s dangerous all right,’ Ida said, watching the thin sixteen-year-old body shrink by in its black cotton dress, hearing the clink, clink, clink of a glass on a tray carried by an unsteady hand, ‘but who to’s another matter.’
‘Let’s go out in the sun,’ Mr
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