Читать книгу Ben on the Job - J. Farjeon Jefferson - Страница 8

There was no mistaking her. Ben recognised her at once, not only by her dark hair and smart appearance, but by that indefinable ‘something’ in her atmosphere which he had discerned even in the photograph. This was all the more surprising since her mood at this moment was entirely different. There was a hardness in her expression, her lips were tight, and some inner excitement seemed to be causing the rapidity with which she slammed the door behind her and ran down the front steps. In her hand was a small suitcase.

As she came to the bottom of the steps she looked quickly up and down the road. Then she caught sight of Ben.

‘I wonder if you could get me a taxi?’ she exclaimed.

Ben’s taxi by now was completely out of sight. For this he was doubly grateful. It wasn’t going to help if she popped off the moment he’d opped along.

‘I ain’t seen one, mum,’ he answered.

‘No, but could you get me one?’

‘Well, mum, that ain’t goin’ ter be easy in this fog—’

‘All right, don’t trouble,’ she interrupted, with a slight frown. ‘I only thought you—I’ll get one myself.’

She was about to move when Ben stepped in her way.

‘Beggin’ yer pardon, mum—’ Her frown deepened. ‘Could I ’ave a word with yer?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry!’

‘Yus, but—’

With a quick shrug, she began to open her handbag.

‘No, mum, it ain’t that,’ said Ben. ‘I ain’t arskin’ fer nothink.’

‘Then what do you want?’ she exclaimed. ‘And please be quick—you heard me say I was in a hurry!’

‘Yus, mum, and I wouldn’t stop yer, not if it wasn’t himportent. Yer—yer ain’t goin’ off like, are yer?’

Her dark eyes blazed with indignation.

‘You’re impudent,’ she cried. ‘Please don’t stand there in my way. Ah—there’s a taxi!’

‘Oi! Don’t tike it!’

In the stress of the moment Ben placed a grubby hand on her sleeve, but as the neatness of the sleeve emphasised the grubbiness of the hand he hastily whipped it off, while the indignation in her eyes changed to utter astonishment. The astonishment was so utter that the taxi which had suddenly grown out of the mist went by, and was now beginning to get lost in the mist again.

‘Taxi!’ she called.

But she was too late. Now her indignation returned in full force.

‘You’ve made me miss it!’ she cried, wrathfully. ‘What’s the meaning of all this? In a moment I won’t be looking for a taxi, but a policeman!’

‘I wouldn’t do that, mum!’ muttered Ben.

‘Wouldn’t?’

‘No, mum. And—and p’r’aps it was a good thing yer didn’t git that taxi!’

She moved a step closer, and stared at him hard. Then she asked shortly:

‘Who are you?’

‘Well—if I told yer me nime, that wouldn’t git yer nowhere.’

A sudden idea seemed to occur to her. Still regarding him with searching eyes, she demanded:

‘Are you a friend—an acquaintance of my husband?’

The change of word was made with scorn, a scorn which Ben had no means as yet of understanding. Indeed, at this moment he was not attending to the change. It was the word ‘husband’ that had pinned his attention.

‘’Usband,’ he repeated, in a mutter.

‘Answer me at once, or go!’ she blazed.

‘It—it ain’t so easy, mum. I ain’t wot I think yer think, on’y—well, see, I got some noose fer yer, and I’m afraid it ain’t good.’

Now she looked puzzled.

‘Have you come from my husband?’

That was a nasty one. Ben replied to the question with another.

‘Beggin’ yer pardon, mum, but might I arsk—are yer Mrs Wilby?’

‘I am.’

‘Oh! Then—in a manner o’ speakin’—I ’ave come from yer ’usband. Don’t fergit—on’y in a manner o’ speakin’.’

‘Then you’d better come in,’ she said, with a little shrug which was an attempt to conceal anxiety. ‘You’ve obviously got something to say that can’t be said out here. Only, if I find you’ve been wasting my time—’

‘I ain’t goin’ ter waiste yer time, mum. Do I look as if I was?’

She shook her head and, turning, led him into the house, and into a small drawing-room. When he had awkwardly accepted her invitation to sit down, he was wondering how to make a start when she made it herself.

‘Before you say anything, and I haven’t the least idea what it is, I’m going to say something. I’m not interested in gossip, and there’s nothing whatever to be got out of me. I want to make that quite clear. But if what you’ve got to tell me is really important—and true—and if your reason for telling me is genuine—’ She looked at him with sudden curiosity, as though trying for the first time to read what kind of a man he was. She went on: ‘If your motive is good, then I’ll listen. Not otherwise. Do you understand all that?’

Ben nodded. He understood, and he felt sorry for both of them. But he still couldn’t get started, and while he was fishing for the right words his troubled confusion brought a new expression into her eyes.

‘Is it as difficult as all that?’ she asked him, almost kindly.

‘Yus, mum,’ mumbled Ben. ‘Yer see—’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I ain’t sure as ’ow yer’ll tike it.’

‘There seems to be a lot we’re both not sure about.’

‘Yus, mum.’

‘Would you like to begin by telling me just what your motive is?’

Her tone was still kind—very different from her tone at the start of their interview—and he almost wished it hadn’t been. Somehow it made his job all the harder.

‘This is orl wrong,’ he complained. ‘You’re tryin’ ter ’elp me, when I come ’ere ter try and ’elp you!’

‘Did you? Is that true?’

‘Corse, mum. Wot other reason would I ’ave?’

‘I could think of others, but if I thought them about you I see now I’d be wrong. You must forgive me if I’m completely baffled! What do you want to help me about—and why should you want to help me?’

Here was a possible lead in.

‘Well, see, mum, it was the photo.’

‘Photo?’

‘Yus.’ Lummy, he was in now!

‘What photo?’

‘’E ’as it on ’im.’

‘Who?’

‘Your ’usband. Mr George Wilby. That’s right, ain’t it?’

‘Mr Wilby is my husband. And this photo, I suppose you are going to tell me, was of—some woman?’

Her tone was getting cold again.

‘Yes, mum, it was of you,’ answered Ben. ‘That’s why I come. That and the address. ’E ’ad it on ’im, and I—well, I dunno zackly why, but seein’ the photo—corse, that’s ’ow I reckernized yer comin’ aht o’ the door—and, well, things bein’ like they was, I felt a bit sorry fer yer, like, if yer git me, so I thort “I’ll come along and tell ’er fust sort o’ quiet like,” espeshully knowin’ orl I does and thinkin’ she orter know that, too, lummy, that’s goin’ ter tike a bit o’ time, but mind yer it was a risk, in fack I nearly didn’t come, ’cos, see, if the pleece find me ’ere I’m for it, I’ll swing, doncher worry, though it’s Gawd’s truth I never done it, but jest found ’im like ’e was in that hempty ’ouse—’

He paused, breathless, as a car stopped outside. There followed a few moments of deathly silence. Mrs Wilby sat rigid, her eyes staring, her cheeks pale, the knuckles of her tightly clenched hands showing white in her lap. Then came steps, and then the front-door bell.

Neither had to look out of the window to feel convinced it was a police car.