The Rose Arbor: A Novel by Rhys Bowen

Author:Rhys Bowen [Bowen, Rhys]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2024-08-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

It was the beginning of rush hour as she approached the Tube station, but she wanted to find Mrs Binks if possible, conscious of time slipping away before she had to make the decision to go back to work or to hand in her notice and find a new job. She studied the Tube map. No Underground service to Lewisham, so she caught the District line back to Charing Cross. Soon she was on a proper train heading to the southern suburbs. The train was already crowded, and more people got on at Waterloo and London Bridge, but it was only a few stations to Lewisham. Liz was directed to the town hall, where they were not pleased to see her. “We close at five,” the girl said, glancing up at the clock that said 4:40.

“This shouldn’t take too long. I’m looking for an address on a council estate here. It’s my mum’s cousin, and she’s anxious to reconnect with her.” She tried not to sound posh. “A Mrs Binks. Ada Binks. Or it could be Mrs and Mr Binks.”

The girl shrugged. “I suppose I can see what I can do. I can’t promise anything.”

“My mum would be ever so grateful. She hasn’t been well,” Liz said, giving a hopeful smile.

The woman went away. Liz waited, watching comings and goings. A clock somewhere outside was actually chiming five when the girl returned. “I did find this,” she said. “Binks. Albert. Would that be him?”

“I think it was Cousin Albert, yes.”

“Here’s the address, then. Bankside Avenue.”

Liz took the piece of paper, thanked the girl profusely and hurried out. Crowds were streaming from office buildings and lining up at bus stops. Liz stopped to ask a policeman for directions and walked against the stream of people until she came to the address she had been given. It was a starkly modern concrete building with balconies running along the front. Liz didn’t think it represented a much better way of life than the area she had just left. The lift was out of order, and she climbed four flights of stairs in a concrete stairwell that stank of urine and smoke. She was glad to come out on to the balcony. A couple of front doors were open. Radio music blared from one and from the other the smell of fish frying.

At last she came to the door she hoped belonged to the Binkses. The sound of TV news was coming from within. This was abruptly turned off and the door was opened.

“Yes?” The woman looked older than her years, with grey hair and a lined face with sharp cockney features. She eyed Liz suspiciously. “We’re not buying nothing.”

“I’m not selling anything,” Liz said. “Are you Mrs Binks?”

“What of it?” Again the cockney suspicion of the outsider was evident.

“I’m Liz Houghton. I’m with a newspaper,” Liz said “And we’re doing a story about three little girls who vanished during World War II—you know, before Little Lucy. And I was told about your Rosie.

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