Ever onwards. Next chapter.
He lit another cigarette.
Jones kept to the shadows, he was
The peace was suddenly rent by a tremendous scream coming from the nether regions of the house. Ramsay hoped for something hair-raising but found only the little scullery maid, enthusiastically thrashing an enormous rat with a frying pan.
“There,” she said, breathless and flushed with success, when her victim finally lay vanquished and bloody on the stone of the scullery floor.
They were alone—the cook had gone home—and Ramsay poured them a glass of brandy each to celebrate her triumph. It was only the cooking brandy, but nonetheless Nellie would probably have had a fit if she had found them sitting companionably around the scrubbed deal of the kitchen table drinking her alcohol.
“What she don’t know can’t hurt her,” the scullery maid said, sipping the brandy. What a sensible person she was, Ramsay thought. And bold, too. Why had he not noticed her before? He hadn’t even known that they had a scullery maid. Her name was Phyllis, she said, and in the course of their illicit conversation he discovered that she was the white sheep （or lamb, perhaps） in a family of East End thieves, so he spent a useful half-hour researching his novel by questioning her about housebreaking, pickpocketing and “smash and grab.”
“Well, thank you for telling me about your people,” he said, when they had finished their （second） brandy.
“My people?” Her eyebrows shot up, reminding him of Edith. “Like we’re a different breed?” She seemed to be in high dudgeon all of a sudden. “We’re all people, we’re all equal!” （Was she a communist?） “And ‘my people,’ as you put it, may be thieves, but at least they’re honest thieves. Your people are the rotten ones!” She stalked off, leaving Ramsay feeling hurt. And he had thought they were getting on so well. Never mind, she might make an interesting character in his novel.
His Prepar’d Prey
“Run away? To London? Really, Freda?” Florence had been nasal with excitement. She really should get her adenoids fixed. “Like Dick Whittington!”
“Well, not quite like him but, yes, London,” Freda said. “We’ll catch the train and go. It’s that simple, if you think about it.”
They had just left the Picture House in Coney Street and were eating chips, hot and greasy from the paper, as they wandered around St. Helen’s Square when Freda first proposed this audacious venture.
“But what shall we do in London?” Florence puzzled.
“Why, dance, of course,” Freda said. “And sing, too, I expect. On the stage. Become stars!”
Florence did a cumbersome little jig in the porch of the church that gave the square its name. Freda was reminded of the Comedy Cat Florence had played in Dick Whittington.
“Oh, Freda,” Florence said, clutching her breast in a melodramatic fashion. “How marvellous! Do you really think I could be a star?”
The Comedy Cat was going to go to London with Dick Whittington. “Of course,” the Pretty Cat said brightly. It was clear that the odds were stacked against Florence, but Freda was sure she had enough optimism for both of them.
“Do you really think the streets are paved with gold, Freda?” Florence asked as they shivered on the wind-whipped platform at York station, waiting for the train to take them to London. Oh, that dratted pantomime, Freda thought. It had given Florence unrealistic ideas about fame and fortune. Success required hard work and discipline—not to mention talent—and truthfully she knew that Florence was inclined to none of those things.
“No, that’s just a fairy tale,” Freda said, but her answer was drowned out by the arrival of the train.
They were not penniless like Dick Whittington. Freda had deemed that Mr. Birdwhistle’s own lack of morals made him fair game and when she saw his jacket left unattended, hanging on the back of a chair in the kitchen, she had slipped her hand into the inside pocket. She had been wary, half expecting something—a rat or a ferret—to bite her hand off. She remained unmolested, however, and managed to trawl out her catch—a wallet, fat with Saturday shop takings.
Mr. Birdwhistle himself was otherwise engaged with Gladys in the front room （“the parlour,” as Gladys insisted on calling it）。 He had recently bought Freda’s mother a gramophone and a pile of popular records that were currently pumping out loud music. There were other noises emanating from the so-called parlour, but Freda doubted that they indicated dancing, certainly not on the obnoxious octopus’s part. Freda had seen them grappling with each other, their lips clamped together as if they were trying to suck the air out of each other’s lungs. Disgusting!