I’ve changed my shirt and had a mouthful of tea.’
Irene stared at him aghast. ‘But Pa, it will cost a small fortune to take the train to Yorkshire, and then you will have to find somewhere to stay for the night, and food …’
Billy patted his breast pocket with a triumphant grin. ‘And I have the means here, my dove. By the time the race is over we will be rich. Your mother will never have to work again and we can get away from the stench of pickled onions and malt vinegar and rent a proper house where we can live like decent people.’
‘But Pa, we need money to pay Yapp or he won’t let me have any more stock.’
‘And we won’t need any more bottles of sauce and jars of pickle. I’ve just told you, darling. I’ve been given a hot tip for the St Leger; a French horse called Gladiateur; by tomorrow evening our money worries will be over. Now come upstairs and make me a nice cup of tea, and we’ll finish off that pie you bought for supper last night.’
‘We ate it, Pa. Arthur and me finished it off last night while we were waiting for you.’
‘No matter, my pet. Tea and toast will do. I’ll take dinner on the train.’ He took the stairs two at a time with Irene hurrying after him.
‘But, Pa, I must speak to you about Inspector Kent.’
‘Never mind him, Renie. As soon as I get my hands on my winnings, I promise you that my gambling days are over and done with. From tomorrow onwards I’m going to be a model husband and father. The Sykes brothers won’t see my face at their tables and Inspector Kent will not bother us ever again. Come on, my angel, don’t dawdle. I’ve got a train to catch.’
Irene held her tongue with difficulty as she followed him into the living room. There was no use talking to Pa when he was in this mood. She made tea and toast while he changed into a clean shirt.
‘There’s no butter or dripping,’ she said pointedly. ‘Couldn’t you spare a few pennies, Pa? Just enough to keep me going until you return?’
‘You know I would if I could, but it’s just not possible. Why don’t you go to your sister’s house for supper? I’m sure they live like lords in Love Lane.’
‘Pa, just listen to yourself. Have you any idea of the mess we’re in?’
‘You must have a little faith in your old pa, my little bird. Everything will be all right, I promise you.’
Irene was not going to give in so easily, but no matter how much she tried to reason with him, he would not listen. She cajoled, pleaded and finally lost her temper with her father, but he was adamant that his tip was solid gold and that Gladiateur could not fail to win the fabled St Leger. If the shop bell had not diverted her attention at that particular moment, Irene thought afterwards that she might have thrown something at Pa’s head, preferably something heavy which would render him unconscious and unable to carry out his wild plan. Fuming inwardly, she left him to finish his tea while she went downstairs to serve the waiting customer.
‘Hello, Irene? Having a nap, was you?’ Sal Hawker rose from the chair and plumped her basket down on the counter. ‘It’s all right for some. You can do as you please, but I’ve got the old bitch up the road on me tail and if I don’t get back with the goods she’ll tan me hide.’
Irene assumed her best businesslike face. ‘What can I do for you, Sal?’
‘Cook wants a jar of pickled cucumbers and a bottle of relish. Oh, and some pickled beetroot too. I almost forgot.’
Irene selected the jars and bottle from the shelves. ‘Anything else?’
‘Oh my Lord, you look down in the dumps. What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing, Sal. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all,’ Irene said, hoping that Pa would not choose this particular moment to come into the shop. ‘That will be one and ninepence three farthings, please.’
‘Put it on the old cow’s slate.’
Irene bit her lip. The silk merchant’s wife was a good customer but a slow payer. Ma had
Irene stared at him aghast. ‘But Pa, it will cost a small fortune to take the train to Yorkshire, and then you will have to find somewhere to stay for the night, and food …’
Billy patted his breast pocket with a triumphant grin. ‘And I have the means here, my dove. By the time the race is over we will be rich. Your mother will never have to work again and we can get away from the stench of pickled onions and malt vinegar and rent a proper house where we can live like decent people.’
‘But Pa, we need money to pay Yapp or he won’t let me have any more stock.’
‘And we won’t need any more bottles of sauce and jars of pickle. I’ve just told you, darling. I’ve been given a hot tip for the St Leger; a French horse called Gladiateur; by tomorrow evening our money worries will be over. Now come upstairs and make me a nice cup of tea, and we’ll finish off that pie you bought for supper last night.’
‘We ate it, Pa. Arthur and me finished it off last night while we were waiting for you.’
‘No matter, my pet. Tea and toast will do. I’ll take dinner on the train.’ He took the stairs two at a time with Irene hurrying after him.
‘But, Pa, I must speak to you about Inspector Kent.’
‘Never mind him, Renie. As soon as I get my hands on my winnings, I promise you that my gambling days are over and done with. From tomorrow onwards I’m going to be a model husband and father. The Sykes brothers won’t see my face at their tables and Inspector Kent will not bother us ever again. Come on, my angel, don’t dawdle. I’ve got a train to catch.’
Irene held her tongue with difficulty as she followed him into the living room. There was no use talking to Pa when he was in this mood. She made tea and toast while he changed into a clean shirt.
‘There’s no butter or dripping,’ she said pointedly. ‘Couldn’t you spare a few pennies, Pa? Just enough to keep me going until you return?’
‘You know I would if I could, but it’s just not possible. Why don’t you go to your sister’s house for supper? I’m sure they live like lords in Love Lane.’
‘Pa, just listen to yourself. Have you any idea of the mess we’re in?’
‘You must have a little faith in your old pa, my little bird. Everything will be all right, I promise you.’
Irene was not going to give in so easily, but no matter how much she tried to reason with him, he would not listen. She cajoled, pleaded and finally lost her temper with her father, but he was adamant that his tip was solid gold and that Gladiateur could not fail to win the fabled St Leger. If the shop bell had not diverted her attention at that particular moment, Irene thought afterwards that she might have thrown something at Pa’s head, preferably something heavy which would render him unconscious and unable to carry out his wild plan. Fuming inwardly, she left him to finish his tea while she went downstairs to serve the waiting customer.
‘Hello, Irene? Having a nap, was you?’ Sal Hawker rose from the chair and plumped her basket down on the counter. ‘It’s all right for some. You can do as you please, but I’ve got the old bitch up the road on me tail and if I don’t get back with the goods she’ll tan me hide.’
Irene assumed her best businesslike face. ‘What can I do for you, Sal?’
‘Cook wants a jar of pickled cucumbers and a bottle of relish. Oh, and some pickled beetroot too. I almost forgot.’
Irene selected the jars and bottle from the shelves. ‘Anything else?’
‘Oh my Lord, you look down in the dumps. What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing, Sal. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all,’ Irene said, hoping that Pa would not choose this particular moment to come into the shop. ‘That will be one and ninepence three farthings, please.’
‘Put it on the old cow’s slate.’
Irene bit her lip. The silk merchant’s wife was a good customer but a slow payer. Ma had
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