CHAPTER 3

The pipes banged at exactly six-thirty. A resonating thumping that carried throughout the building most mornings. Trapped air and loosely secured old iron pipes carrying modern water pressure. A bad combination for sure. The cause: it was Derek turning on the cold water to fill the egg poaching pans at the same time as Gloria stood, pulled up her frilly French knickers and flushed the loo. On the sofa Dee stirred. Those bloody pipes. If the dragon ever drops dead they’ll be the first thing I fix.

 Dee heard her mother stomp down the stairs grumbling about something. Maybe that weasel, Jimmy Raynott. That was probably it. Heard the kitchen door creak and the words, “Good morning, Derek,” and smiled. She imagined Derek stopped in his tracks, unable to believe what he had just witnessed. Stood like a petrified tree watching her floral dress drift off towards the front entrance to plant herself behind her desk. Ten years, straight after demob from the army kitchen corps where he had spent most of the war spud bashing. Ten years and those were the very first nice words she had spoken to him. Dee heard the kitchen tap run then the pipes bang again as the upstairs bathrooms came into use. 

She dressed. A deliberate short, black number with a narrow black belt to enhance her slim, lithe figure. Add to that risque, black nylon fishnet stockings and she knew she had a combination to enrage her mother. Flaunting in front of a house full of men would drive her mad. Refrained from too much makeup. Only a faint wipe with a dull red lipstick and the meerest dusting of rouge, slip on the black flats and she was just about done. A second to brush her long blonde hair. A quick cologne spray and down the stairs. Popped her head into the kitchen and smiled at Derek, mentioned the extra guest, but did not stop. Through the door into the dining room. Counted six tables and ten chairs. Two of the tables with one chair. Good, I’ll have to walk past her. Rushed along the corridor, past the stairs, she slowed to a crawl as she passed the desk and smiled at her mother. But with one of those ‘this’ll teach you’ smiles which turned to genuine pleasure as she saw her mother’s face scowl and heard the growl forming. Skipping into the sitting room she collected an eleventh chair and returned, slowly going past with an exaggerated wiggle, a flash of white teeth and picked up speed. As she passed the mirror hanging on the hall wall dead opposite the understairs cupboard she looked at herself, smiled extra wide. I’m glad I hung that there it looks real good and you know what? She didn't complain. The smile, one of those all-knowing smiles of smugness. She thought of the advantage the placing of the mirror had given her and her smile broadened. It had fitted very nicely into her scheme. An angry shout followed her down the hallway that was suddenly cut short by the sound of footsteps on the upper stairs. Without further hesitation she belted into the dining room and put the extra chair at the single chair table just inside the door to the hall.  

The fire in Gloria’s eyes did not diminish as they followed Dee until she disappeared into the dining room. Maybe that was where Dee’s dragon reference came from, who knows. The one thing that was certain: at that moment Gloria suddenly realised her daughter had grown up. That girl, just like her mother, she knows exactly what buttons to push. I’ll have to watch her more closely… The look on Derek’s face. That was well worth the effort. I’ll enjoy being nice as much as I did antagonising him. The dear. He’ll be so confused.   

Her thoughts snapped shut and her demeanour abruptly changed as the first body reached the bottom of the stairs. A clacker, they were always first. Case and trilby in hand. Desperate to get out and on the road. This one with the super keenness of a very young man. Down before two gongs. Obviously new to the game and yet to learn the meaning of pace. She suspected that before the day’s end he would run out of steam. Checking the clock she stood, removed the long-handled beater from its makeshift hook and, with a frown and gritted teeth, beat the shine off the gong twice. The pigeons flew from their perches way up on the roof and those punters, who might have failed to wake with the banging pipes, leapt from their beds almost in shock.  

 

Before the single gong five more clackers had appeared. Four down the stairs and one from a ground floor room. These were the ones who were disturbed by the pipes. The lighter sleepers who had upped and paraded to the bathrooms, skipping the regulation order where a gap appeared. The standard routine: leave your door open to indicate to the late starters who had already been and done and had wandered downstairs. Dressed in their business suits, white shirts and blue ties. Soft soled easy walk but highly polished shoes. Why the blue ties? Both categories, the salesmen and the knockers, were of the same opinion but for different reasons. The salesmen thought business bosses were capitalists who would shy from a red tie so affecting potential orders. The knockers thinking blue enhancing their snappy suits would have a more endearing effect on housewives than a violent red one. 

All clutched their cases and trilbys ready for a quick exit knowing time meant money and walking was a slow process. Each case with a similar contents. The minimal clothing. Mostly just a spare shirt and underwear. The most essential things: Shoe polish and brush. A small china bowl. Safety razor with probably a blunt blade. A badger and a tube of shaving soap. All wrapped in some sort of a coloured striped hand towel. The bulk of the space reserved for samples or merchandise. In the case of merchandise enough for one day’s expected take to be replenished from the local wholesaler at the day’s end.   

Gloria greeted each with the same good morning and insincere put on smile. Stood with the beater ready and an eye on the clock. The guests mingled in the sitting room with the knowledge that on no account were they to stray into the dining room. The second single gong was that signal. No real conversation, just the odd good morning or equivalent nod. Any conversation from last night quickly forgotten as irrelevant.  

With even more vigour Gloria struck the gong once more dead-on time. With the same booming resonance. Five minutes proved to be the time needed for pigeons to return to their perches. Having just settled they flew again confirming that the intelligence of a pigeon did not extend to the realisation that repeated gong noises presented no threat. The parade headed for the dining room. The remaining two clackers leap down the stairs to join the back of the dwindling queue.  

The first beezer appeared around seven-ten. A mid-sized man with dark, creamed flat hair. A tight moustache hung on his upper lip. Good looks and a smiling face. Smart suit. Double breasted with a snazzy silk waistcoat. His eyes sparkled as he greeted Gloria with a burst of charm. “Madame,” was all he said but looked at her in a particular way. He did not carry a case but he had one when he arrived. Then, the way he had swung it suggested a lack of contents. Maybe just clothes and necessary items. Hair cream mostly perhaps. Gloria smiled and gave a small knowing nod then looked at Dexter Carmichael as he stepped down the final flight of stairs. Still looking smart in his grey suit and shiny black brogues. White shirt and his tie: pale red and grey diagonal stripes. When he saw her looking he smiled and she felt herself go all gooey. 

“Good morning, Gloria. You look refreshed,” he said. Gloria wondered what that meant. Dexter though looked at the gin-tired eyes that had in fact improved from the slightly drooping lids of yesterday evening. 

“Did you find the room to your liking?” she replied. 

“Very good thank you. It smelled of perfume which was actually quite pleasant.” 

“If you go to the dining room, Dee will show you to your place.” Gloria said, not at all sure about Dexter Carmicheal. She watched him amble to the dining room. He carried his beezer in his right hand without it swinging about too much. It definitely looked quite heavy. Rubbing her chin she wondered. That was all, she just wondered. 

As he left she returned to the desk, removed a duplicate invoice pad from the centre drawer and flicked to a new page with nine shillings and eleven pence already written in. The invoice number box waiting to be manually filled. Then she pulled a short, narrow, rubber print block marked PAID and a large square block with the boarding house’s address and a tin containing an ink pad. From a bag she removed ten pennies and put them in a pile on her left-hand side. All set she waited for the leaving queue to form. One of the abundance of house rules: The guests paid daily, immediately after breakfast, even if they were staying more than one night.  

The last guest, a third beezer, popped out of a downstairs bedroom. Eyed Dexter's heavy looking beezer and followed him towards the dining room. This short man with what looked like ultra-wide shoulders under the blue suit jacket. Unless, of course, they were padded. But that was not the impression. Short brown hair. Creased shirt and a pale grey tie. That freshly shaved look. His face? Now, that was a mystery. Neither good looking nor ugly but gave the impression of confidence. Forties? Maybe, but could be late thirties. Noticeably he had no hat. He almost slipped past Gloria’s gaze unnoticed. That prompted her to think, Three beezers on the same day. That was so unusual it was suspicious. Yesterday morning I had been expecting one and he had come down first. The other two though. One had booked by phone two weeks before. He had arrived about mid-day, checked in then had gone straight out taking his case with him. Off to work? Maybe. Ummm, but he had no hat… And then there is this Dexter Carmichael. Arriving late with no booking. He had made me quiver. Was that a good thing? Maybe or was he a charmer with that particular talent intended to confuse. If so it had nearly succeeded. What was he up to? Something was going on for sure.