his early morning exertions, and so Liz sat with him in the living room until it was time for her to get lunch ready. Once in the kitchen, she quickly laid out a plate of cold meat and some salad. She checked the clock, and seeing she still had twenty minutes before she needed to serve up the food, she opened a drawer in the kitchen table and took out a book.
It was not a novel, but a playscript. She sat down and checked that she could not be seen from the door. She did not expect her father to come looking for her, but if he did she would have time to push the book under the cushion of the chair. Not that there was anything untoward in the text. But she knew how much her father disapproved of the theatre. They had argued so often that Liz had given up trying to persuade him that plays were not the word of Satan and music halls the Devilâs own choice of entertainment.
It was an argument her father would never let herwin, so instead she avoided it. And read her plays in the kitchen, or after he had gone to bed. With half an ear listening for the hall clock to strike one, Liz lost herself in Arthur Wing Pineroâs world of
The Magistrate
.
The crust was hard and dry, but when Eddie broke it open, the inside of the roll was still moist and fresh. He gnawed at it, making it last, letting the hard flakes of crust soften in his mouth as Annie watched with obvious amusement.
âI donât reckon youâve eaten anything for a week,â she told him.
âMaybe I havenât,â he admitted, sending crumbs flying. âI donât know.â
She laughed at that. âYou want another one?â she wondered as she watched the roll disappear.
âYou got one?â
âCan get one. But itâll cost you.â Her pale eyes glinted with mischief, and Eddie could guess what was coming.
âGot no money,â he admitted.
âA kiss then.â
He pulled a face and made a retching sound. Little Annie laughed again. But Eddie could tell that she was making light of her disappointment. She always did. One day perhaps he would give her a kiss, and see if she laughed then. Faint from the shock, more like.
Everyone called her little Annie, though she was as old as Eddie and slightly taller. But her dad, the baker, would tousle her hair with his floury hands and call her his little girl. Eddie liked Annie. He liked the way the flour flecked her dark hair, the way she half-smiled when she tried not to laugh. The way her eyes widened when she saw Eddie, and most of all the way she kept yesterdayâs rolls for him.
âAnnie?â
She could sense he was going to ask her something serious, and frowned. âYes?â
âYou know anything about talking to the dead?â
The frown froze on her face, lining her forehead and wrinkling the skin by her nose. âYouâre weird, you are, Eddie Hopkins,â she said. âWho do you know whoâs dead?â
Eddie grinned at her. âLots of people,â he said. He laughed out loud to see her flinch at that. But inside, he wasnât laughing.
A policeman called mid afternoon. He assured Liz and her father that a post mortem on Albert Wilkes was to be carried out that evening, and that the poor manâs widow had been informed and the relevant permissions obtained. He made it sound very formal, and despite the way in which events had come about, Liz supposed it was.
That evening, after reading evensong from his batteredBook of Common Prayer, Lizâs father announced that he would retire early. Relieved, Liz helped him up the stairs. She did not want to be late meeting George Archer, and she had another appointment she intended to keep before that.
She sat on the top stair until the sound of her fatherâs gentle snores was rhythmic and settled. Then Liz spent another fifteen minutes washing up the crockery and cutlery from supper and tidying the living room. She crept up the steps again, listening carefully to
It was not a novel, but a playscript. She sat down and checked that she could not be seen from the door. She did not expect her father to come looking for her, but if he did she would have time to push the book under the cushion of the chair. Not that there was anything untoward in the text. But she knew how much her father disapproved of the theatre. They had argued so often that Liz had given up trying to persuade him that plays were not the word of Satan and music halls the Devilâs own choice of entertainment.
It was an argument her father would never let herwin, so instead she avoided it. And read her plays in the kitchen, or after he had gone to bed. With half an ear listening for the hall clock to strike one, Liz lost herself in Arthur Wing Pineroâs world of
The Magistrate
.
The crust was hard and dry, but when Eddie broke it open, the inside of the roll was still moist and fresh. He gnawed at it, making it last, letting the hard flakes of crust soften in his mouth as Annie watched with obvious amusement.
âI donât reckon youâve eaten anything for a week,â she told him.
âMaybe I havenât,â he admitted, sending crumbs flying. âI donât know.â
She laughed at that. âYou want another one?â she wondered as she watched the roll disappear.
âYou got one?â
âCan get one. But itâll cost you.â Her pale eyes glinted with mischief, and Eddie could guess what was coming.
âGot no money,â he admitted.
âA kiss then.â
He pulled a face and made a retching sound. Little Annie laughed again. But Eddie could tell that she was making light of her disappointment. She always did. One day perhaps he would give her a kiss, and see if she laughed then. Faint from the shock, more like.
Everyone called her little Annie, though she was as old as Eddie and slightly taller. But her dad, the baker, would tousle her hair with his floury hands and call her his little girl. Eddie liked Annie. He liked the way the flour flecked her dark hair, the way she half-smiled when she tried not to laugh. The way her eyes widened when she saw Eddie, and most of all the way she kept yesterdayâs rolls for him.
âAnnie?â
She could sense he was going to ask her something serious, and frowned. âYes?â
âYou know anything about talking to the dead?â
The frown froze on her face, lining her forehead and wrinkling the skin by her nose. âYouâre weird, you are, Eddie Hopkins,â she said. âWho do you know whoâs dead?â
Eddie grinned at her. âLots of people,â he said. He laughed out loud to see her flinch at that. But inside, he wasnât laughing.
A policeman called mid afternoon. He assured Liz and her father that a post mortem on Albert Wilkes was to be carried out that evening, and that the poor manâs widow had been informed and the relevant permissions obtained. He made it sound very formal, and despite the way in which events had come about, Liz supposed it was.
That evening, after reading evensong from his batteredBook of Common Prayer, Lizâs father announced that he would retire early. Relieved, Liz helped him up the stairs. She did not want to be late meeting George Archer, and she had another appointment she intended to keep before that.
She sat on the top stair until the sound of her fatherâs gentle snores was rhythmic and settled. Then Liz spent another fifteen minutes washing up the crockery and cutlery from supper and tidying the living room. She crept up the steps again, listening carefully to
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