said Mr Tooley, ‘she’s me daughter.’
Each regarded the other in extreme curiosity then, Major Armitage seeing a rugged but honest-looking man in a blue serge suit with iron-grey hair. A working man, and the grandfather of the child. It was something to know he was not coarse or bruising.
Mr Tooley wondered if the caller was from the plainclothes police. Milly had left a few debts behind in her time. No sense of responsibility, and she never had had. The last he’d heard of her, she and that smooth-talking husband of hers had been running an entertainments troupe which performed at seasides in the summer and got a few bookings in northern music halls during the winter. Milly had always been mad about the theatre, but had never got anywhere that put her in the money. Nor had her husband, some sort of a magician, whose hands had let him down when too much drink gave them the shakes at the wrong moments.
‘You are Mr Tooley?’ said Major Armitage.
‘I am. Mind, me daughter has always been known as Milly. Might I ask why you’re enquirin’ after her?’
‘Mr Tooley, have you a few minutes to spare?’ asked Major Armitage.
‘I’ve got time to spare until ten-to-eight, when I’ll be on me way to keep an appointment,’ said Mr Tooley. ‘You’re welcome to step into me parlour.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Mind you, the kitchen’s warmer, the fire’s going,’ said Mr Tooley, standing aside.
‘The matter’s confidential, Mr Tooley,’ said Major Armitage.
‘I’m a widower, I live on me own, with just a young couple and their infant, lodging upstairs,’ said Mr Tooley, wondering what ‘confidential’ meant exactly.
‘The kitchen, then,’ said Major Armitage, appreciating the straightforwardness of Milly Tooley’s father. ‘My name, by the way, is Armitage.’
‘This way, Mr Armitage,’ said Mr Tooley, intrigued now. Well, the bloke was undoubtedly a toff in his appearance, manner and speech. He took him through the passage of the old Victorian terraced house and into the kitchen, where the range fire radiated warmth. The room was tidy, its table covered by a blue and grey check oilcloth, easy to wipe down and keep clean. On it stood a silver-plated cruet. A bowler hat and a stiff brush sat next to it. ‘Help yourself to a chair.’
‘Thank you,’ said Major Armitage. He placed his own bowler on another chair. Mr Tooley sat down opposite him.
‘You’ve got me curious, Mr Armitage.’
‘Yes, that’s understandable,’ said Major Armitage, ‘and I’ll come straight to the point of my visit. Mr Tooley, I should like to frankly ask you if your daughter Milly had a child sometime during the first half of 1915, a child fathered by an Army officer.’
‘Eh?’
‘Did she?’
‘So help me, that’s winded me,’ said Mr Tooley, and thought then of his granddaughter Rosie. If Rosie had forgotten her mother, she had never forgotten him. Twice a year she called, always with Boots Adams, her adoptive father, a man Mr Tooley greatly admired. During her years as a growing girl, a man could see how attached she was to Boots, much as if he was the sunshine of her life. And what a lovely girl she was, in looks and nature. Mr Tooley thought about how she always sent him birthday and Christmas cards, and with each card there was always a little affectionate note. Rosie was pure gold, with none of Milly’s selfishness or shallowness. Her adoption by Boots and his wife Emily had to be the best thing that had ever happened to her. But what was this toff’s interest in Milly all about? ‘It beats me, Mr Armitage, you asking a question like that.’
‘I’d be obliged, Mr Tooley, if you’d answer it,’ said Major Armitage.
‘Well, I can tell you yes, she did ’ave a child,’ said Mr Tooley. ‘Out of wedlock on account of fallin’ from grace , as they say, which considerably upset me and her mother.’
‘Was the child a boy or a girl, Mr Tooley?’ Major Armitage was asking his questions in
Each regarded the other in extreme curiosity then, Major Armitage seeing a rugged but honest-looking man in a blue serge suit with iron-grey hair. A working man, and the grandfather of the child. It was something to know he was not coarse or bruising.
Mr Tooley wondered if the caller was from the plainclothes police. Milly had left a few debts behind in her time. No sense of responsibility, and she never had had. The last he’d heard of her, she and that smooth-talking husband of hers had been running an entertainments troupe which performed at seasides in the summer and got a few bookings in northern music halls during the winter. Milly had always been mad about the theatre, but had never got anywhere that put her in the money. Nor had her husband, some sort of a magician, whose hands had let him down when too much drink gave them the shakes at the wrong moments.
‘You are Mr Tooley?’ said Major Armitage.
‘I am. Mind, me daughter has always been known as Milly. Might I ask why you’re enquirin’ after her?’
‘Mr Tooley, have you a few minutes to spare?’ asked Major Armitage.
‘I’ve got time to spare until ten-to-eight, when I’ll be on me way to keep an appointment,’ said Mr Tooley. ‘You’re welcome to step into me parlour.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Mind you, the kitchen’s warmer, the fire’s going,’ said Mr Tooley, standing aside.
‘The matter’s confidential, Mr Tooley,’ said Major Armitage.
‘I’m a widower, I live on me own, with just a young couple and their infant, lodging upstairs,’ said Mr Tooley, wondering what ‘confidential’ meant exactly.
‘The kitchen, then,’ said Major Armitage, appreciating the straightforwardness of Milly Tooley’s father. ‘My name, by the way, is Armitage.’
‘This way, Mr Armitage,’ said Mr Tooley, intrigued now. Well, the bloke was undoubtedly a toff in his appearance, manner and speech. He took him through the passage of the old Victorian terraced house and into the kitchen, where the range fire radiated warmth. The room was tidy, its table covered by a blue and grey check oilcloth, easy to wipe down and keep clean. On it stood a silver-plated cruet. A bowler hat and a stiff brush sat next to it. ‘Help yourself to a chair.’
‘Thank you,’ said Major Armitage. He placed his own bowler on another chair. Mr Tooley sat down opposite him.
‘You’ve got me curious, Mr Armitage.’
‘Yes, that’s understandable,’ said Major Armitage, ‘and I’ll come straight to the point of my visit. Mr Tooley, I should like to frankly ask you if your daughter Milly had a child sometime during the first half of 1915, a child fathered by an Army officer.’
‘Eh?’
‘Did she?’
‘So help me, that’s winded me,’ said Mr Tooley, and thought then of his granddaughter Rosie. If Rosie had forgotten her mother, she had never forgotten him. Twice a year she called, always with Boots Adams, her adoptive father, a man Mr Tooley greatly admired. During her years as a growing girl, a man could see how attached she was to Boots, much as if he was the sunshine of her life. And what a lovely girl she was, in looks and nature. Mr Tooley thought about how she always sent him birthday and Christmas cards, and with each card there was always a little affectionate note. Rosie was pure gold, with none of Milly’s selfishness or shallowness. Her adoption by Boots and his wife Emily had to be the best thing that had ever happened to her. But what was this toff’s interest in Milly all about? ‘It beats me, Mr Armitage, you asking a question like that.’
‘I’d be obliged, Mr Tooley, if you’d answer it,’ said Major Armitage.
‘Well, I can tell you yes, she did ’ave a child,’ said Mr Tooley. ‘Out of wedlock on account of fallin’ from grace , as they say, which considerably upset me and her mother.’
‘Was the child a boy or a girl, Mr Tooley?’ Major Armitage was asking his questions in
Similar Books
