Plenty Under the Counter by Kathleen Hewitt

Author:Kathleen Hewitt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION / Historical / World War II
Publisher: Imperial War Museum
Published: 2019-05-09T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-TWO

WHEN DAVID CALLED for Tess she said that she would be free till six-thirty, and that she felt like a spot of mild gaiety.

He said: ‘Our choice isn’t awfully wide. It’s a quick tea and the pictures, or a tea dance. Unless you’d like to try some dump that sells drink right round the clock? I daresay we could find one.’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ Tess said firmly. ‘Let’s just make it tea somewhere nice. No dancing, I’m breaking in my five coupons worth of crêpe-soled shoes.’

‘The best is good enough for us. Call it Claridge’s.’

David hailed a taxi. As they drove towards the West End Tess said: ‘I’ve discovered something that may interest you.’

‘Anent what?’

‘Anent the immediate vicinity of the crime.’

At the moment David was feeling less thrilled by crime and its surroundings than by Tess. She was in grey, her delicate chin was barely visible above soft fur, and a saucer of a hat merely drew attention to the glinting golden hair beneath it. He said: ‘You’re exquisite, darling. I wish I were Watteau, so I could immortalise you.’

‘Watteau be blowed, when I’m simmering with discovery.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of who owns that garage you’re so curious about.’

‘Too late, my sweet. I heard about Mr. Smith from an adorable girlfriend of mine.’

‘Smith? Then your adorable girlfriend adopts the strangest pronunciation.’

‘She certainly said Smith. What’s your version?’

Tess put her tip-tilted nose slightly in the air. Her profile was certainly a lovely specimen of nature’s draughtsmanship. ‘I think I’ll keep it for an adorable gent friend of mine.’

‘Darling, I’ll come clean. My informant was sixty-five or more and she wears a sequin toque with violets on it.’

‘I’d like one like that.’

‘I’ll have it built for you.’ David squeezed the hand he was holding. ‘Who, according to you, owns the confounded garage?’

‘A Mr. Shink.’

‘Oh, jehoshophat!’ David burst out laughing ‘There can’t be anyone called Shink.’

‘It’s comic, isn’t it?’

‘Who told you, anyway?’

‘The mother of one of our kids at St. Margaret’s. She – her name’s Mrs. Crumping, by the way – ’

‘We seem to be in for an orgy of this sort of thing. Attractive names, I mean.’

‘Mrs. Crumping was telling Sister Allardyce why she couldn’t afford to buy her baby girl a spare nightdress. We fixed the kid up of course. But meanwhile we’d heard all about poor papa Crumping and why he was out of work, even in these days. It’s his feet, which are said to be so corn-ridden that he has to lie in bed all day smoking cigarettes, and can hardly get to the pub at opening time to rally his failing strength. This Crumping, it seems, labels himself as a handyman, and his wife was complaining that the only job he’d had for months was fixing some shelves three weeks ago in the garage in Cannock Alley. Of course, I pricked up my ears at that, and asked who had given him the job. She said Mr. Shink, who owns the garage.’

‘I’ve got it!’ David exclaimed. ‘Shink – Schenk. Don’t you think she was saying Schenk? If only you’d ask her to spell it.

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