This treacherous Saturday, however, was still capable of giving him
another shock, from an unexpected quarter. Mrs. Smeeth was out when he
arrived home, and he had a solitary dinner, with Edna flitting about
and trying to keep out of his way. After dinner, he smoked his pipe and
pottered about for half an hour or so, and then, as the afternoon sent
some gleams of pale sunlight creeping, like a returned convalescent,
into Chaucer Road, he went out for a walk. Fate, which had for once an
easy task, directed him to Clissold Park, where his shock was awaiting
him.
The fifty green acres of Clissold Park are surrounded by miles and
miles of slates and bricks, chimney-pots and paving stones, and so, in
the middle of it, placed there perhaps as a sign that the round green
world of mountains, forests and oceans still exists somewhere, or at
least once had an existence, there are a number of animals and bright
birds. If you are a Stoke Newington ratepayer, you have only to turn
a corner or two to catch the soft shining glances of deer, to meditate
upon the spectacle of birds so fantastically fashioned and coloured
that it is impossible to believe that both they and North London are
equally real, that one or the other is not a crazy dream. You stand
there, a litter of peanut shells and paper bags all round you, with
a Stoke Newington dinner inside you struggling with your digestive
juices, and you suddenly hear a scream from the jungle and a green and
scarlet wing from the Orinoco is flashed at you.
There are links, however, between these two worlds. One of them was
standing beside Mr. Smeeth, and wore a short grey beard and a dusty
bowler. “Yus,” he remarked, looking at the gorgeous birds, then at
Mr. Smeeth, then at the birds again, and doing it masterfully, as if
to keep both the birds and Mr. Smeeth there, “yus, I been where them
things comes from. Common as sparrers there, yer might say. Bigger than
these, too--yus, and brighter colours on ’em. Yus, I been where them
birds comes from.”
“Is that so?” said Mr. Smeeth. “And when was this? Not lately, I’ll
bet.”
“And you’d win, mister. Forty years ago, that was, in good old Queen
Victoria’s time. Ah, yer little devils!” he cried, addressing the birds
now. “What d’yer think o’ that, eh? Forty years ago. I left the sea
thirty-five years ago, mister, but I’d stopped going to them places
five years before I left the sea for good an’ all. Yus, the last five
years I was on the North Atlantic run, and you don’t see any o’ them
little dazzlers up there--fog and icebergs is what you see up there,
mister. But I’ve seen the time when I’ve brought them things ’ome,
proper old sailor style. Yus, I have. If yer don’t believe me, ask the
pleece; they know everything there is to know, isn’t that so, Sergeant?”
Mr. Smeeth discovered that an acquaintance of his, a Stoke Newington
man and a very good hand at a whist drive, Sergeant Gailey of the local
division, had strolled up. “Now then, Mr. Lee, telling lies again!
Dear, dear, dear! Oh, it’s you, Mr. Smeeth, is it? You’re the victim,
this time.”
“That’ll do, Sergeant,” retorted Mr. Lee amiably, “yer only giving away
your ignorance. Yer’ve seen nothing yet, and I don’t think yer ever
will now. Good afternoon.” And off he toddled.
“You know him, don’t you, Mr. Smeeth?” said Sergeant Gailey. “Oh, he’s
a rum old devil. Keeps a second-hand shop--furniture and curios and all
that stuff--down by the Green. His daughter runs it now, but it’s his
shop, and he’s better off than you’d think, that old devil is. Won’t
part with nothing, you know, but his reminiscences and good advice.
He’s a character.”
“When he started, I thought he was going to try and cadge a bob,” said
Mr. Smeeth, moving away slowly with the sergeant.
“He’d have it all right if you offered it him, though he could buy you
and me up, Mr. Smeeth, a good many times. But how are you getting on,
these days? Here, what’s the name of that boy of yours?”
“You mean George?”
“That’s right. George Smeeth, Chaucer Road--eh? I saw the name a day or
two ago, and thought it must be that boy of yours. We’re having him up
at the North London next week, Tuesday, I think.”
“At the North London!” Mr. Smeeth stopped, and gaped at him. “Do you
mean the police court?”
“That’s right. Case comes on on Tuesday, I think. What, didn’t you
know?”
“No, of course, I didn’t know,” cried Mr. Smeeth in horrified
amazement. “Do you mean--my boy George?”
“Here, steady, steady, Mr. Smeeth! We’re not charging him. He’s only up
as a witness.”
Mr. Smeeth breathed again, but he was still puzzled and worried, and
the sergeant, noticing this, began to explain.
“I don’t know why he’s not told you. It’s one of these car stealing
jobs. We’re always getting ’em now. What with cars running over people
and then skipping off, and cars in these smash-and-grab outfits, and
cars being lost and pinched--coo!--we get a proper packet of cars! I
don’t know what the Force did in the old horse traffic days. ’Owever,
this is one of the car stealing jobs and by a bit o’ luck _and_
judgment, we traced this particular car to that garage where your lad’s
been working lately. Chap o’ the name of Barrett runs it, and between
you and me, we’ve had an eye on him for some time. Well, he bought this
car--a good car, nearly new; I don’t remember the make, but it was a
_good_ car, worth money--for fifteen quid. He doesn’t deny it. Now
we’re taking the line that he bought that car knowing it to be stolen,
not the property o’ the chap that offered it to him. It’s our belief
he’s done this before, and a good many times, too. As I say, we’ve had
an eye on him. If he’s not a wrong ’un, I give it up. Whether we’ll get
him this time or not, I don’t know. I wasn’t on the case myself. But
that fifteen quid’ll take a bit of explaining. They’ll be saying they
get cars given ’em soon.”
“But where does George come in?” said Mr. Smeeth, who did not care what
happened in the car-stealing world, but cared a great deal about his
son.
“Oh, that’s nothing. He worked there, see, and was there when the car
went into the garage, and so on. We’ve nothing against him, of course.
He’ll only be asked to say what he saw.”
“Thank goodness for that! You gave me a fright, I can tell you,
Sergeant. I don’t mean by that, mind you, that I thought for a minute
my boy’d be mixed up in anything dishonest. I don’t see as much of him
as I ought these days, and he just goes his own way, but I know the
boy’s as straight as you like.”
“I’ll bet he is,” said Sergeant Gailey with a certain forced
heartiness, which he immediately dropped for a more serious, cautionary
tone. “But, all the same, Mr. Smeeth, he ought to have told you, you
know. And another thing. You get him away from that garage and that
chap Barrett. He’s in bad company there. Doesn’t matter if Barrett
walks out of that court next Tuesday with the case against him in bits;
never mind about that; you get your boy out of it and away from that
chap. If we can’t prove it this time, we’ll prove it next time, and
there always is a next time with those cocky birds. I wouldn’t let a
boy of mine put his nose in a dump like that.”
“Don’t you worry about that, Sergeant,” cried Mr. Smeeth, his voice
trembling with excitement. “George doesn’t stay there another day. I
should think not! And I’m very much obliged to you for telling me,
Sergeant, very much obliged.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Smeeth. Thought you ought to know. Which way you
going now?”
“Straight home. That’s my way now,” replied Mr. Smeeth, and he went as
fast as he could go to Chaucer Road. He was still rather alarmed and
astonished, for police court affairs were remote from his experience
and he had a horror of them, but he was chiefly indignant, indignant at
the thought that this business, which took George to court and might
take his employer to gaol, should have been kept from him. Did his wife
know all about it, and had she deliberately hidden it out of his sight?
He could hear her saying to George, “Now don’t you say a word to your
father about this. You know what he is.” Yes, something like that. If
she really had done that, then they _would_ have a quarrel. This was
serious. My word, what a life! You never knew what was happening.
He arrived home to find his wife still absent and Edna and her friend,
Minnie Watson, screaming with laughter in the dining-room. “Just a
minute, Edna, I want you,” he said sternly. She followed him into the
other room.
“Where’s George?”
“I don’t know, Dad. Working, I suppose, down at the garage. What’s the
matter?”
“Did you know anything about this police court business?”
Edna stared at him, her chocolate-stained mouth open. “What police
court business? What are you talking about, Dad? Has it something to do
with George?”
“Never mind about that. You don’t know anything about it, eh?” It
certainly didn’t look as if she did, but Mr. Smeeth told himself
wearily that you could never tell, not with children like these, such
a strange secretive lot. “All right, it doesn’t matter. Where is this
garage? You can tell me that, I suppose?”
She gave him precise directions, and ten minutes later he was there,
confronting a queer George in greasy overalls, who was doing something
incomprehensible to the inside of a car. He was probably astonished to
see his father, but he only raised his eyebrows and grinned. George had
ceased for some time to show any signs of surprise.
Telling himself that this was his son, who had been a child only
yesterday, Mr. Smeeth looked sternly at him, and summoning all the
forces of parental authority, he said curtly: “Just clean yourself up
and get your hat and coat on, George.”
“What d’you mean, Dad? What’s up? Anything wrong at home?”
“No, there isn’t, but just do what I tell you.”
“Well, I don’t understand.”
“Oh, come outside if you’re going to argue about it,” said Mr. Smeeth
impatiently, and led the way out into the street. “It’s the police
court business. I’ve just heard all about it.”
“Oh--I see,” said George slowly.
“I’m glad you do see. I’d like to have seen a bit earlier,” said
his father bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell me? Have to have a police
sergeant telling me what’s happening to my own son!”
“Well, you needn’t go at me, Dad. I’ve done nothing, and they’ll tell
you I haven’t.”
“I know all about that. And you’re not going to do anything either.
That’s why I came round. You’re finishing here now, George. I was
warned not to let you stop on--though I didn’t need any warning. I’m
not going to have you mixed up with this sort of business. So you can
just tell them you’re finishing now, this minute.”
“Oh, I can’t do that, Dad. We’re busy.”
“I don’t care how busy you are, George. You’ve got to stop.”
“Oh, all right--if you feel like that about it. But look here, Dad, I
must finish that job I’m doing now.”
“How long will that take you?”
“Ten minutes. Quarter of an hour. Shouldn’t be longer.”
“All right,” said Mr. Smeeth grimly, “I’ll wait.” And he waited twenty
minutes; but at the end of that time George came out, washed and
brushed and without his overalls.
“I might have lost the week’s money, walking out like that,” he told
his father, “but they paid up--like good sports.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“There’s another chap running this besides Barrett, a chap called
McGrath--proper motor mechanic, he is.”
“And is he a wrong ’un, too?”
“Not more than most. McGrath’s all right.”
“Tell me this, George,” said Mr. Smeeth, halting and looking very
earnestly at his son, “did your mother know anything about this police
court business?”
“Course she didn’t, Dad. I wasn’t going to tell _her_.”
“I see,” said Mr. Smeeth, relieved to find there had been no general
conspiracy. “But why didn’t you tell _me_, boy? I can’t understand you
keeping a thing like this to yourself.”
They were walking on again now. “Oh, I didn’t want to bother you about
it,” replied George coolly. “I knew there’d be a lot of gassing and
fussing if I did. And there was nothing to get excited about. I hadn’t
done anything. They weren’t running _me_ in, were they?”
It was incredible. Mr. Smeeth gave it up. Here was this boy of his,
who had been playing with clockwork trains on the floor only the day
before yesterday, so to speak, and now he could talk in this strain,
as cool as you please, as if he were Sergeant Gailey or somebody! Mr.
Smeeth waited a minute or two, then said very quietly: “About that car,
George--did you know it was stolen?”
George grinned; no wincing, shrinking, anything of that kind; just a
plain grin. “I didn’t _know_, but I had a few ideas of my own about it.
And about one or two others, too.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you’d a good idea of what was going on
there and you didn’t do anything about it?” Mr. Smeeth was shocked and
astounded.
“What could I do about it, Dad? If I’d been dragged into it, that would
have been different. But they didn’t try. And you needn’t worry--I
wouldn’t have had it. Buying cars that have been pinched like that is
a mug’s game, if you ask me. Barrett’s a fool, though he’s not a bad
sort, really, and he’s treated me all right. Doesn’t know anything
about cars though, not like McGrath does. I believe he _had_ to take
over some of those cars. I saw one or two fellows who called to see
him, and I didn’t like the look of them at all--real toughs, they were.
But mind you, Dad, I don’t _know_ anything about those cars, don’t
forget that.”
The boy talked about buying stolen cars as if it was simply a little
weakness on Barrett’s part, a silly hobby. He didn’t seem to be in
the least shocked or frightened. Mr. Smeeth could not make it out at
all. It was just as if he had brought up a boy who had suddenly turned
into an Indian. The boy was all right, really; he had left the garage
without making a fuss; but, nevertheless, his point of view appeared
to be whole worlds away from anything his father could understand. “I
must say I don’t like to hear you talking like that, George,” he said.
“Seems to me you don’t understand the seriousness of this business.
It’s criminal, this is, work for the police, and you talk about it as
if it was a tea-party or something. Talk like that, and you don’t know
where you’ll land yourself.”
“That’s all right, Dad,” said George tolerantly. “Don’t you worry. I
can look after myself.”
“Well, you’re going to do it outside that place now,” Mr. Smeeth told
him.
“Oh, I meant to leave there soon, anyhow,” George remarked airily.
“I should think so! And the next job you find for yourself, I hope,
will be in a concern that the police aren’t interested in. You’d better
tell me something about it, first. Easy to get yourself a bad name,
y’know, boy, even if you don’t do anything wrong yourself.”
George, who seemed to live in a world in which bad names didn’t count,
a world his father didn’t know, made no reply, but merely whistled
softly as he walked along. When they arrived home, tea was waiting for
them, with Mrs. Smeeth sitting behind the teapot. She was surprised to
see George walk in with his father. Mr. Smeeth gave her a look that
said “Quarrel or no quarrel, you’ve got to recognize that this is
serious,” and cut short her inquiries by remarking, “We’ll have a talk
about this afterwards, Mother.”
As soon as the two children were out of the room, he told her what had
happened, and she gave him all her attention, realizing at once that
this affair transcended any quarrel.
“You did right, Dad,” she told him, when he had finished.
“I hope you realize,” he added, not without bitterness, “that this
means the boy may be out of a job for some time, and that means both of
them earning nothing. It’s all right, of course, but still--we’ll have
to be careful.”
“George’ll soon get something. He always does,” she said confidently.
“I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t got a better job in his eye now. You
were right to do what you did, but you leave him alone now and don’t
worry. He’ll find something.”
This seemed a good opportunity to tell what had happened during the
earlier part of this eventful day, with special reference to the
disturbing rumour about Mr. Golspie. But she wouldn’t listen. She
turned herself again into a woman who had quarrelled with him, merely
listened to a few words with a distant politeness, excused herself and
then gathered up the tea things in a very grand, dignified manner,
rather like a duchess visiting a poor cottager. Mr. Smeeth was left
to smoke his pipe, alone, a solitary little figure in a huge, dark,
mysterious world of cracking walls and slithering foundations, with
echoes and rumours of catastrophe in every wind.