CHAPTER 8

Gloria was right about Tolly Parkin. The trip by train down from London was ‘business’ and that was where he had obtained the beezer. From the rack above a city suited gent reading a broadsheet. Middle-aged. Pinstripes and black consuls with black socks. What made Tolly look at the socks? He always checked the socks. Black socks, the look of a man of discretion and wealth. Tolly’s thoughts: you can tell a lot about a fella from his socks. About his character and of course his wealth potential. Snappy socks and you will meet the life and soul sort. Maybe a spiv, so watch out. Patterned socks and there was the stable solid reliable type. Probably married and living a difficult life with kids and the worst part, always broke. No socks with leather shoes and you have got an out and out poser. Then, of course, the black socks and there you have the perfect mark. It used to be trousers. Those old-time baggy trousers with the old-time button on elasticated braces with loose fit waist over the ample stomach and all those coins jangling. You could always tell the wealthy by the amount of underwear that showed without their hands in their pockets. Tolly just could not help himself. He had to see what was in the man’s beezer. Besides, he needed a case for his ‘business’. He would have preferred a clacker, much more authentic, but the chance of the contents of a beezer was way too tempting.

  He had clocked the guy as soon as they got on the train in London and saw the case. Tolly was an opportunist. That was his expertise in the war. Scavenger. Make the most as situations were presented. Sergeant Tolly Parkin the man who made his company's lives better. Better food, better clothes, better equipment and the most prized thing: thick dry socks.  

Sure he was on an ’outing’ but that did not mean he could not do a bit of extra. Make the most of a beezer when presented. The art of distraction. That was what he was good at. First though, be polite.    

“Excuse me,” he had said as he reached above the man’s head as they approached the station before Eastbourne and continued with, “Oh, sorry” as he nudged the man's shoulder making him look up from his paper. “Sorry matey,” he said with as genuine a smile as he could put on. Be polite again. Say, “Nice day, eh?” Make the man bored. Hold his attention though with another nudge as the train rocks a bit. Mouth ‘sorry’. There he goes that bored scowl. A deliberate movement of the arm upwards. Make the man’s eyes follow. Let him see the grab of the tatty clacker’s handle next to his posh case. Nudge again. The huff. Perfect. Let go of the clacker handle as the man huffs again and sticks his head in the paper. Quickly snatch the beezer off the rack. Swing away down-train behind the man’s back as the train slows and out of the door as it stops. One seamlessly well-timed operation. He would be long gone before the man realised.  

The wrong station but did that matter? Not in one sense. Eastbourne was the end of the line so the rich guy would be getting off anyway. So, it had to be the station before. But maybe it would make him late. He would have to get a shift on. Hopping on a bus it took almost an hour longer to reach the Bay View that he was booked into. 

He was on a mission for sure. Down from London with the instructions: Check out the Manor House just out of town. “Get all the lowdown,” his captain had said. A huge mansion with all the right credentials for a good night’s takings. The owner, Claude Durand, a London jeweller and importer of gemstones of quality. His speciality: diamonds and even more important: top class diamonds.  

 

Immediately after he checked into the Bay View, he opened the beezer. He had to pick the locks but that was no problem. Rummaged through the contents. Posh man’s stuff mostly. Enough clobber for the weekend. But, jackpot, an eighteen-carat gold and diamond pendant on a solid gold chain. One of those presents for the little weekend darling no doubt. He put it in his inside pocket. Perks as far as he was concerned. Clipped the case shut then almost flew out of the front door leaving Gloria wondering about his haste.  

The five miles to the Manor would be a difficult ask. Walk it? For him that would be two hours and he did not have the time to waste. A taxi was the answer. He would stump up the cost. After all, it was the price for gaining some delicately crafted gold. So, he headed towards the station. Not so far, maybe four streets back from the seafront in a line opposite the pier. On the way he stopped at a hardware store. Bought two bars of soap, two scrubbing brushes and an assortment of towels, dusters and two tins of the best beeswax furniture polish. Chucked out the contents of the case and replaced them with his purchases. 

Outside the station a sole taxi waited for a fare. The driver leaning on the front wing smoking with the blue grey smoke momentarily lingering before drifting off. A suit that looked like it would better fit a bigger man and an open necked shirt. The smell of smoke and sour, tangy, stale body odour drifted towards him on the breeze. As Tolly approached the driver took one long draw of the cigarette and threw the butt in the gutter. Pushed his cloth cap back on his head a touch and said, “Where to matey?” He gave the beezer a long hard look. 

Tolly gave him the address and sat in the back listening to a bored driver tell him how the world went around. He did not contribute much but did catch the guy’s eye in the mirror and said, “Would you be able to wait. It might be a half hour or so.” 

“Sure,” said the driver. “The cost goes on the meter and the tip is expected to be bigger.” 

“Fair enough,” said Tolly, “Drop me down the road a bit. I don’t want to be seen getting out of a taxi.” 

“I can understand that. A knocker, eh? In a taxi? Whatever next.” said the driver. “That case, a bit out of the ordinary for a knocker, isn’t it?” 

“Sure it is, but why not. I’m successful and want my customers to know that. It helps sales. A taxi though is a step too far… Any problems?” said Tolly, catching the fella’s eyes in the rear view again and holding the stare for longer than the driver would have liked. 

“No problem. I haul a lot of salesmen around town and do you know what? I can never remember what they look like or where they go.” 

“Best way to be. Some of them don’t want to be remembered. Call it salesman confidentiality. Wait here and don’t worry it’ll be worth your while.” 

Tall hedges gave the place a secluded look and wide iron gates made an impressive entrance. Just inside the gate a small cottage with a very well-kept garden had the look of an old gatehouse. The main house nestled neatly into a slight dip in the ground at the end of a long winding gravel driveway. Neatly clipped shrubs in the borders and the smell of freshly mown grass. Imposing was the word with the high windows of a Georgian mansion. Approaching the house there was the expected sign. ‘Tradesmen’ pointed around the side towards a high wall. Through wide open gates a courtyard was visible with garage doors in the background. That was his route. This was definitely not a front door exercise. He needed to charm the staff. 

Through the gateway into the courtyard he saw a wide door with a big bell above it with a long length of chain which Tolly pulled. The loud persistent clanging seemed to reverberate around the brick walls. There was a wait. Then footsteps and the door opened. 

The woman with a long-striped apron and pinned up dark hair stared at him with shrewd eyes, sweat on her brow and the glare of a naturally stroppy person. The smell of soap and grease surrounded her. Late fifties. Shame, younger women required less work. He did not feel hopeful. 

“No hawkers.” she grated. 

Oh dear, a fed-up, worn-out witch of a cook. Just my luck. “Come on darling,” he said, “give me a chance. Look at me feet. They’re smoking I’ve walked so far.” 

“Don’t darling me. I take no nonsense from your sort. Get off with you and take all your smooth talk with you. It won’t work on me.” 

Tolly thought, I can see that. Nothing will work on you, you dragon. Your skin’s so thick you’re bulletproof. 

“What's going on?” came a voice from the background.  

Now that’s a nice sweet younger lady’s voice for sure. “Just popped in to see if you were short of a few things,” he said looking over the hunched grump in front of him at the thirties something lady with a white apron and duster in her hand who appeared out of the inside gloom to squint in the bright light. She’s a pretty one. Tolly sensed his luck was changing.  

“It’s okay Mrs Grant. I’ll deal with this,” the lady said to the cook who grunted and wandered back towards the steam and heat. “Mrs Grant’s okay, you know, she’s just a bit crusty. I’m Mary Crimp, housekeeper. Come in,” she said to Tolly. 

Sure she is, thought Tolly, she’s made of that real tough water crust stuff. No nice crumbly butter pastry there for sure. Now you though…  

Tolly followed her into a small office. Definitely the house keeper's place. A desk piled with papers. An armchair with a small occasional table. The tall bookcase full of housekeeping books and a line of ledgers. Covering part of the bare floorboards an oriental rug curled slightly at the edges. “Have you got any polish? I’ve just used the last scrape,” Mary said. 

“Sure I have. The best beeswax as well.” He put his case on a desk next to a small pile of papers. Flicked the catches and pulled out a tin and handed it to Mary who had sat behind the desk. 

“Perfect,” Mary said. “You look tired. Take a seat. Would you like tea?” 

“That would be lovely. Thank you. I’ve walked miles today.” I do lie so well. 

“I won’t be a minute,” Mary said and swished out of the room. Tolly could hear the rattling of cups. He looked around the room. Small. Saw the line of keys hanging on a rack screwed to the wall to the right-hand side of the door. Glanced at the window. An old sash with the two sliders fastened in the middle with one twist top catch. New paint. That might stick, he thought but smiled all the same. Then she was back and put the cup and saucer next to the armchair. “You don’t look like the normal knockers we get here. Your case it’s not the usual clacker, is it?” 

“I like to be different. I call on the better houses so feel I should stand out. I’ve invested in the case. Cost me a fortune. I hope it will make a difference. I’d appreciate an honest opinion. What do you think? Does it make a difference? And my suit. I try so hard to be smart and I avoid the normal blue tie.” 

“It certainly makes you seem more professional… Yes, I’d say it does. It gives me the confidence I’ll not be swindled. You know, you do stand out. Quite nicely in fact.” Mary glanced at his shoes.  

“Sorry about the shoes though. Dusty roads. A long walk. They take a real pounding.” Tolly licked his fingers and gave one a rub taking off the worst of the grim. 

“Tell you what. I’ll get the polish. Slip them off. You can give them a quick clean so you're at your best for your next call.” 

Tolly slipped off his shoes and curled the big toe of the right-hand sock under his foot so the hole was not visible. He could not remember the last time he had given his shoes such a rub but they came up fine, “Thank you,” he said, “I really appreciate that.” 

“Glad I can help. Now, how much is the beeswax?” 

“Two shillings. Expensive I know but that’s what I sell, quality products. The best beeswax. None of the usual knocker junk for my customers.” 

“That's fine with me. Two dusters as well?” 

“I tell you what. I’ll throw them in. For the shoe polish. It’s only fair. How about that?” 

“Perfect and thank you.” 

“Thanks for the tea. It’s good to talk to such a nice person for a change. I’ve had a lot of abuse today and to be honest I’m a bit fed up with it when I try so hard.” Tolly smiled making sure it was his best, most sincere looking smile. 

Mary smiled back, “I can understand that, that’s why I try to be nice.” 

“And it works. I can tell you that and it’s much appreciated… nice place this. It must take a lot to keep it all together and looking so smart. You obviously do a good job.” 

“There’s a lot to do for sure but just at the moment it’s not so bad. The owners are away for the next two weeks. There’s just myself and Mrs Grant here at the moment. Oh, and the gardener of course but he lives in the cottage by the gate.” 

“You know, I’ve never been in such a big house as this. I can't imagine what it would be like to live here.” 

“Come on. I’ll give you a treat. I’ll walk you out the front door. You can see most of the downstairs from there.” 

They wandered down a short corridor. Mary opened an unlocked baize servant's door and, walking through, Tolly stood in a cavernous hallway looking at a wide, winding oak staircase curving up one wall. Light streamed through a huge window on the half landing. The space was extraordinary. He had been in some big places but this was something else and, of course, the others had always been at night. 

“This sure is grand,” he said. “What’s through that door? It’s the only one that’s shut.” 

“That’s the owner’s study. I’m only allowed in there when he’s there working. When he’s not here it’s always locked.”  

Tolly took a few seconds to sweep his gaze around the hall. Three other doors. Sitting room and dining room. Perhaps a library but he lingered on the study door. Turned and looked at the front door. The bolts top and bottom. The security chain. The deadlock and the Yale lock. Smiled at the tall sash window next to the door. Why all the locks and chains when that window is right next door. Then said, “Well, thank you so much. You have been very kind.” 

Within a few minutes he was sitting in the back of the taxi with a very smug look on his face. I’m so good at this. Definitely a good bit of luck but all the same I’m just so good at it. The captain will be pleased.   

He said to the driver, “Back to the station please,” and handed him a ten bob note for the fare and another for waiting. He did not mind the driver taking him to the Manor House. Even if he remembered him he would be lost in London where his description would just get jumbled amongst the pile that lingered in all the police stations. But he did not want the driver to know where he was staying. That gave a point of reference and became a loose end. No, get dropped at the station and he would walk back to the Bay View. He would be just in time for dinner but, judging by the state of the place, he suspected that would be an experience best forgotten.