Read Online Hardcastle's Obsession by Graham Ison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Graham Ison
Ads: Link
next.
‘Well, Marriott, all we’ve got to do now is find a “Sir Somebody” who manufactures army uniforms.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But there’s nothing we can do until Monday. Get yourself off home. I dare say your good lady’s wondering what’s happened to you. How is your family, by the way?’
‘All right, sir, thank you. Young James is doing well at school, but little Doreen’s proving to be a bit of a handful. She’s six now.’
‘Girls always are difficult, Marriott, and it only gets worse,’ commented Hardcastle gloomily. ‘And I should know: I’ve got two of them. But our Kitty’s the problem; she insists on working on the buses. It’s no job for a young girl, but I can’t persuade her to change her mind. Maud’s all right though, she’s nursing. Proper job for a girl is that. Anyway, get off with you, Marriott, and give my regards to Mrs Marriott.’
‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.’ Marriott had been surprised at Hardcastle’s brief insight into the problem of his eldest daughter. It was a rarity for the DDI to discuss his family.
It was eight o’clock when Hardcastle opened the door of his house in Kennington Road, Lambeth and hung his hat and umbrella on the hooks in the hall. Taking out his chrome hunter, he glanced at the clock next to the mirror. Satisfied that the hall clock was keeping good time, he wound his watch and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket.
‘Is that you, Ernie?’ called Hardcastle’s wife from the kitchen. ‘I’d almost given up on you.’
‘Yes, it’s me, Alice.’ Hardcastle walked into the kitchen and pecked his wife on the cheek. ‘What’s for supper, love?’
‘Chops, mashed potato and cabbage, Ernie,’ said Alice over her shoulder. ‘And a glass of sherry wouldn’t go amiss. I’m fair parched.’ It was Alice’s custom always to have a glass of sherry on a Saturday evening.
‘I think I’ll join you,’ said Hardcastle, which is what he always said when Alice asked for a drink. He went into the parlour and poured a glass of sherry for his wife and a substantial measure of whisky for himself. Taking the drinks back to the kitchen, he put Alice’s glass on the flap of the kitchen dresser, and crossed to the wall by the cooker where he had pinned the war map provided by the Daily Mail .
‘For goodness’ sake don’t get under my feet, Ernest,’ said Alice testily. Her use of Hardcastle’s full name was an indication of her frustration. ‘Not while I’m cooking supper. You can make sure the war’s progressing all right when I’m done,’ she added, with a hint of sarcasm.
Hardcastle moved away. ‘Where are the children?’ he asked. Even though they were young adults, he still referred to them as children.
‘Kitty’s on the back shift, home at ten, but Maud will be in shortly. And young Wally should be in from the post office very soon.’
As Hardcastle had explained to Marriott earlier, Kitty Hardcastle was a constant source of worry to her parents, but more so to her father than to her mother. He was always concerned for her safety, travelling home alone at night from the bus depot. But his main concern was the constant danger of bombs dropped by Zeppelins, or from the new menace, the giant Gotha bombers. Young Walter, Wally to his family, was a telegram boy and spent most of his working day delivering the sinister little yellow envelopes that would tell of the death or wounding of a husband, son or brother at the Front. But he was mindful that even that occupation had its dangers; he recalled the death of the young telegram boy who was hit by falling masonry outside the bombed house in Washbourne Street.
No sooner had the Hardcastles sat down to supper than Maud appeared. She walked into the dining room and threw her cape and cap on to a vacant chair. Although only nineteen, her nurse’s uniform gave her the appearance of being much older; she had matured quickly tending the victims of the war at one of the big
‘Well, Marriott, all we’ve got to do now is find a “Sir Somebody” who manufactures army uniforms.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But there’s nothing we can do until Monday. Get yourself off home. I dare say your good lady’s wondering what’s happened to you. How is your family, by the way?’
‘All right, sir, thank you. Young James is doing well at school, but little Doreen’s proving to be a bit of a handful. She’s six now.’
‘Girls always are difficult, Marriott, and it only gets worse,’ commented Hardcastle gloomily. ‘And I should know: I’ve got two of them. But our Kitty’s the problem; she insists on working on the buses. It’s no job for a young girl, but I can’t persuade her to change her mind. Maud’s all right though, she’s nursing. Proper job for a girl is that. Anyway, get off with you, Marriott, and give my regards to Mrs Marriott.’
‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.’ Marriott had been surprised at Hardcastle’s brief insight into the problem of his eldest daughter. It was a rarity for the DDI to discuss his family.
It was eight o’clock when Hardcastle opened the door of his house in Kennington Road, Lambeth and hung his hat and umbrella on the hooks in the hall. Taking out his chrome hunter, he glanced at the clock next to the mirror. Satisfied that the hall clock was keeping good time, he wound his watch and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket.
‘Is that you, Ernie?’ called Hardcastle’s wife from the kitchen. ‘I’d almost given up on you.’
‘Yes, it’s me, Alice.’ Hardcastle walked into the kitchen and pecked his wife on the cheek. ‘What’s for supper, love?’
‘Chops, mashed potato and cabbage, Ernie,’ said Alice over her shoulder. ‘And a glass of sherry wouldn’t go amiss. I’m fair parched.’ It was Alice’s custom always to have a glass of sherry on a Saturday evening.
‘I think I’ll join you,’ said Hardcastle, which is what he always said when Alice asked for a drink. He went into the parlour and poured a glass of sherry for his wife and a substantial measure of whisky for himself. Taking the drinks back to the kitchen, he put Alice’s glass on the flap of the kitchen dresser, and crossed to the wall by the cooker where he had pinned the war map provided by the Daily Mail .
‘For goodness’ sake don’t get under my feet, Ernest,’ said Alice testily. Her use of Hardcastle’s full name was an indication of her frustration. ‘Not while I’m cooking supper. You can make sure the war’s progressing all right when I’m done,’ she added, with a hint of sarcasm.
Hardcastle moved away. ‘Where are the children?’ he asked. Even though they were young adults, he still referred to them as children.
‘Kitty’s on the back shift, home at ten, but Maud will be in shortly. And young Wally should be in from the post office very soon.’
As Hardcastle had explained to Marriott earlier, Kitty Hardcastle was a constant source of worry to her parents, but more so to her father than to her mother. He was always concerned for her safety, travelling home alone at night from the bus depot. But his main concern was the constant danger of bombs dropped by Zeppelins, or from the new menace, the giant Gotha bombers. Young Walter, Wally to his family, was a telegram boy and spent most of his working day delivering the sinister little yellow envelopes that would tell of the death or wounding of a husband, son or brother at the Front. But he was mindful that even that occupation had its dangers; he recalled the death of the young telegram boy who was hit by falling masonry outside the bombed house in Washbourne Street.
No sooner had the Hardcastles sat down to supper than Maud appeared. She walked into the dining room and threw her cape and cap on to a vacant chair. Although only nineteen, her nurse’s uniform gave her the appearance of being much older; she had matured quickly tending the victims of the war at one of the big
Similar Books
