Read Online Sons and Daughters by Mary Jane Staples - Free Book Online Page A

our voters like the old boy, even if they’d never vote Tory,’ said Paul. He fidgeted. ‘Forget upper class and titles.’
    ‘Forget ’em? Why?’ Between her shining black curtains, Lulu Saunders peered suspiciously at him. ‘That’s what we’re fighting, aren’t we?’
    ‘Don’t ask the converted,’ said Paul, ‘just talk to the people of Walworth about the points detailed in the leaflet.’
    ‘Wait a minute,’ said Lulu. ‘Didn’t take this job on to deliver leaflets, did I?’
    ‘Consider it a pleasant surprise,’ said Paul. ‘Off you go. You can take all day. Tomorrow you can do some typing for me.’
    ‘I’ve got a feeling,’ said Lulu.
    ‘What feeling?’
    ‘That we’re not going to get on. You’re playing the superior male.’
    ‘How about that?’ said Paul. ‘Just when I was thinking what a superior female you are. Nice to have you with us.’
    ‘Someone here needs sorting out,’ said Lulu, ‘and it’s not me. Right, Adams, let’s have the bloody leaflets, then. But watch your back.’ Her spectacles looked threatening. ‘I’m a killer.’
    ‘Enjoy your day,’ said Paul.
    He felt better after she’d gone. After all, with luck, no-one need find out in due course that SirEdwin Finch was any relative of his. And if anyone did, well, he could ride the upper-class stigma as an incorruptible Young Socialist.
    Miss Saunders. Why the long, ankle-length dress? Was she, one, a bluestocking? Two, a frump? Three, bow-legged? Not three, he hoped. If one or two, well, a bloke could forgive a girl for either if she had good stilts.
    Paul’s politics did not limit his interest in the opposite sex. As a young man, he naturally subscribed to the belief that politics exercised a bloke’s social awareness, and girls exercised his imagination.
    Sammy, Jimmy and Mr Greenberg arrived at the specified warehouse in Edmonton. Brick-built, with dusty skylights in its roof, it seemed old enough and grimy enough to date back to Roman times. There was a tough-looking geezer about four feet wide at the door.
    ‘Morning,’ said Sammy.
    ‘Name?’ growled Toughie.
    ‘Adams, Sammy Adams.’
    Toughie consulted a well-thumbed notebook.
    ‘Ain’t got no Adams,’ he said, ‘and if I ain’t got yer monicker, you ain’t getting in.’
    ‘Have another look,’ said Sammy, and Toughie did another scrutiny, thumbing pages.
    ‘Oh, I got yer,’ he said, ‘Jammy Adams. But hold on, who’s he and who’s him?’
    ‘Him’s my son and he’s my business consultant,’ said Sammy. It was black market all right, and onlyauthorized dealers were going to be admitted. Well, he needn’t tell Susie.
    Toughie scrutinized Jimmy, then eyed Mr Greenberg. Mr Greenberg’s white-peppered beard advertised he was heading towards old age. His round rusty black hat was already there. But he still loved business and still pursued his rag-and-bone rounds in South London. He was also known north of the river.
    Toughie, grinning, addressed him.
    ‘Watcher, Eli, how yer doing, you old pirate? Nice to see yer.’
    ‘My pleasure, ain’t it?’ said Mr Greenberg.
    ‘Didn’t spot it was you at first,’ said Toughie. ‘Jammy Adams was in the way. All right, in yer go, you’ve got time to look at the apples and oranges before you place yer bids.’
    They entered the warehouse. Tiers of stout shelving on either side contained bales of material, and plain wooden stairs led up to the top tiers. Dealers, some furtive and some brazen, were making inspections of the wares. At the far end two men sat at a desk, observing the scene.
    Sammy was after bales of nylon, one of the modern man-made materials beginning to replace natural yarns. All bales were marked with a number.
    ‘So vhat do you think, Sammy?’ Eli’s whisper murmured through his beard.
    Sammy, noting a dealer talking to the men at the desk, said, ‘I think, Eli old cock, that that’s where we place our bids.’
    ‘Vell, Sammy,’ said Mr Greenberg, who hadnever