Under cover of Billy Murray singing “Clap Hands! Here Comes Charley!” Freda filleted several notes out of Mr. Birdwhistle’s wallet before replacing it carefully in his jacket. Altogether it amounted to four pounds and ten shillings—a small fortune.
Mr. Birdwhistle’s money was safely transferred into Freda’s own little purse and from there into the somewhat larger handbag, an old one of Vanda’s that she had given her. Freda planned to be on the train to London before Gladys and Mr. Birdwhistle had even truffled their way out of their stale bedding. She took some pleasure in imagining how furious the octopus would be when he realized that she had robbed him. Propped up on the mantelpiece, she left a farewell note written in pencil on her best pink notepaper.
Dear Mother, I have run away to London to seek my fortune. I am going to dance on the stage. The next time you hear from me I will be famous! You don’t need to worry about me. Sincerely, your daughter, Freda.
Florence made her own contribution to their escape trove—nearly two pounds in small coins from the blue-glass piggy bank that she smashed open.
When they had settled onto the benches of their third-class carriage, the engine champing at the bit to get away, Florence took Freda by surprise by slyly sliding a string of pearls out of her coat pocket and displaying them, wide-eyed and mute with triumph, to Freda, sitting opposite. Freda recognized them only too well, she had seen them many times around Mrs. Ingram’s rather plump neck. Duncan had once told her about the pearl fishers in Ceylon, how they could hold their breath longer than anyone so that they could dive down into the deeps to retrieve the oysters’ hidden treasure, and she had wondered how many times they had to dive to make Mrs. Ingram’s lovely necklace.
In the manner of Vanda’s magician taking a rabbit from a hat, the pearls were followed by a turquoise cuff （Mrs. Ingram’s birthstone） and an enamel and gold brooch in the shape of a bluebird that Freda knew Mr. Ingram had given Mrs. Ingram for her fiftieth birthday. There had been a small tea party to celebrate this milestone, at which Freda had been present, as she was at many of the Ingrams’ unassuming family celebrations. Mrs. Ingram’s eyes had filled with tears when she unwrapped the little blue brooch. “Oh, how thoughtful, Alistair,” she said. “I’m so touched. Thank you, dear,” and Mr. Ingram said, “Dearest Ruthie, you have put up with so much.” What had Mrs. Ingram put up with?, Freda wondered. Mr. Ingram himself, she supposed. He was a dreadfully dry old stick. They had kissed, modestly, which was how adults should kiss, in Freda’s opinion.
“Put them away,” Freda hissed at Florence, under cover of the engine letting off steam prior to departure. They were not alone in the carriage. An elderly man in a seat at the window was absorbed in the Times obituaries and a crotchety-looking woman had already stared at them with displeasure for no greater crime than their youth and sex.
Rather reluctantly, Florence returned her treasure to its cache. It would be bad enough when the Ingrams discovered that their precious Florence had run away, without finding that Mrs. Ingram’s jewellery had disappeared along with her. Freda suspected she would be blamed for both absences. In the end, she supposed, she would be blamed for everything.
They had barely clambered out of the train at King’s Cross when Freda began to feel the burden of Florence’s naivety. A woman had approached them while they were still on the platform retrieving their suitcases and asked if they were looking for lodgings, and Florence, who was like an affectionate but neglected dog, eager to make friends with anyone, said, “Yes, we are, how kind of you,” before Freda dragged her away by her coat sleeve. “Don’t talk to anyone who approaches you like that. In fact, don’t talk to anyone.”
“Why not? She was just being helpful,” Florence protested.
She was a lamb inviting slaughter! Had she never heard of the white slave trade? Of the yellow peril? Of Arab sheiks holding Western women captive in desert tents?
“That’s all just in films, silly,” Florence said. （And this from the most gullible person Freda knew!） “And we do have to find somewhere to sleep tonight, Freda.” It was nearly five o’clock. “Nearly tea time,” Florence added, betraying the anxiety of someone used to regular meals. Oh, Lord, Freda thought. Florence was not accustomed to fending for herself, whereas Freda felt as though she had done nothing else for her whole short life. “Don’t be such a grouch, Freda. We’re on holiday, after all.”