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  Betty decided to take a look around Balham way. There were several flats available, all with two bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom, with gardens as well. As she got to the ground floor she saw Mrs Bennet in her makeshift bed under the stairs. Poor old dear. She crept close. The old woman had her mouth open. She was dead to the world. Had probably been awake all night and now was catching up.

  Balham seemed to be trying to break out of a stern sense of God-fearing respectability. The high street had curved terraces of imposing shops that supplied general household goods and clothes and shoes, which were of some quality but suffered from the description ‘hard-wearing’. It was an epithet that would not be seen in, say, Streatham. Streatham, with its Locarno, theatre and slightly raffish ice rink, was properly smart. Smart was right for Streatham, and hard-wearing was right for Balham. Balham was bounded by the straggly Tooting Bec Common and Wandsworth Common, the latter of which seemed ultra-respectable, even though it was in the shadow of the prison. Balham bristled with its respectability. There seemed to be more tabernacles, Salvation Army halls and churches for all kinds of denominations and varieties of religion than elsewhere. It housed the headquarters of the Rechabites, a national organization of total abstainers, and each chapel had its subsidiary organization of Bands of Hope, Boys’ Brigades and Girl Guide troupes. Indeed, the Hyde Estate had been built by a teetotaller who had made no provision at all for a public house on the site and would not even allow an off-licence to trade there. There was an outside market, but it was only used by the really poor, as the respectable people of Balham preferred the extortion of little shops with their lickspittle proprietors, who, as likely as not, were the vergers of the church or chapel – although looking at the faces of Balham men you might have concluded that there were more vergers than churches.

  Balham people tended their gardens, never had wild parties, kept themselves to themselves. If you wanted fun you could go to bosky Brixton with its theatrical boarding-houses, its rough pubs and markets and prostitutes. If a prostitute showed her face in Balham it was likely she’d be stoned. There was a cinema – not one of the new, black, flashy Astorias, with their ornate interiors designed to represent paradise, but a drab Victorian place that may have once been a theatre and which, from its general appearance, you might have thought was still showing silent films.

  Maybe it was because of its strait-laced appearance that flats were cheaper to rent.

  Betty started at Clapham South and walked down Balham Hill. There was a pile of bricks where the Hippodrome had been, possibly the only godless establishment in the area. For the rest, it was lace curtains and aspidistras, dark suits and the hush of a perpetual funeral. The Southern Railway station allowed the respectable to be ferried to respectable jobs in the centre of London, returning in the evening with the air of men who had spent the day doing God’s work.

  Betty found a flat she had seen advertised in the paper. It was above a piano shop, which also sold brass-band instruments and music as well as prams. It had a card in the window stating ‘Terms available’. She went into the shop and was charmed by the shining pianos, the smell of furniture polish. A dapperly dressed, sallow-complexioned man of about thirty, with dark, wavy hair, smiled expectantly, but his smile faded when she enquired about the flat. He said that the flat was nothing to do with him, that the letting was in the hands of an estate agent.

  She had tea in the ABC, then found the estate agent’s office. A deposit of five pounds could secure the flat. Would she like to see it? The flustery little man with a stiff collar and dark-blue tie took the keys off the rack, and they walked back to the music shop. She liked the idea of being over such a respectable business; as they went by a piano tuner was at work on one of the uprights. It sounded nice the way he plonked the keys and tightened the notes.

  The flat was beyond her dreams. It was light, spacious, had a bathroom and a good-sized kitchen with a gas oven and adequate china and utensils. It was very bright and clean. The sitting-room had a modern three-piece suite in an autumn-leaf design. The bedroom was a fair size, too, with windows that overlooked the high street, an oak wardrobe and – her heart leapt – a mahogany dressing-table with a mirror. You felt that you were somebody up here. She could imagine making tea in the kitchen and drinking it peering out of the windows to the traffic below. She must bring Stephen.

  She hurried home, full of her discovery of their future in the elegant flat, with no neighbours up or down. It was a wonder that they had stuck together in that poky flat. When she got to the top of the street she saw a taxi draw up outside number seventy-seven. Stephen got out and paid the driver. She ran down the street to greet him. Stephen looked confused.

  ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some good news.’ He stared at her as though he was unable to take in what she was telling him. ‘Posh,’ she said. ‘Coming home in a taxi.’ She hoped that a lot of the neighbours had seen it.

  ‘I was taken ill at work,’ Stephen said. ‘I had to get home.’

  They went up the steps and into the hall. Mrs Bennet was still in her bed under the stairs.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Stephen said.

  ‘She just worn out, poor old lady,’ Betty said. ‘She was there when I went out.’

  Stephen stared at Mrs Bennet. He touched her hand and drew it back sharply as though he’d been stung by a wasp. ‘She’s dead,’ he said.

  Betty looked at the recumbent body, the mouth open, as it was before she left for Balham; the unseeing eyes were just slits, not really closed.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. Neither of them had seen a dead body before.

  ‘Let’s get her inside,’ Stephen said. They lifted her. Stephen took the head and trunk and Betty held the legs. It was difficult because Mrs Bennet’s knees were practically under her chin and they couldn’t straighten them. There was scarcely any weight. Mrs Bennet felt like a bag of bones. It was a surprise that she didn’t rattle.

  They dragged her into her sitting-room. It smelt of dust and urine. It was untidy, with dirty cups and plates on the floor. A many-coloured crocheted blanket was spread out like a rug. Cobwebs hung on the curtains.

  ‘Better get her on to the bed,’ said Stephen. They dragged her into the bedroom and on to the lumpy bed with its iron frame with brass knobs. It was like lifting a baby. They spread her on the bed, a little ball of old bones, and then looked at each other, horrified at what they had done.

  ‘Has she got any relatives?’

  ‘Her husband died years ago,’ said Betty, ‘but she had a son.’

  There were piles of paper on the tables, on chairs and some on the floor. Betty started going through the papers, not really knowing why except that they might yield some clue to a relative, a friend. Stephen stayed in the bedroom, looking in the bedroom cupboard, festooned with old clothes. There was only a small window in the bedroom, and Mrs Bennet was, Stephen was pleased to note, in the shadow.

  Betty, in the sitting-room, heard Stephen gasp. Then he said, in an odd low voice, ‘Betty. Come in here.’ She went in. He was standing by the window, looking very calm and serious. There was a dry cracked note in his voice.

  ‘Close the door,’ he said. She closed the door, wondering why Stephen suddenly seemed so masterful. He was like a man who had suddenly come to a serious decision.

  ‘Is there anyone else in the house?’

  Tim would be at work. Edie would be at Epsom, visiting Bert. ‘I don’t think so. Only Bunty, but she won’t have heard anything.’

  Stephen turned back to the cupboard. He put his hand in the pocket of one of Mrs Bennet’s old coats and pulled out an old envelope. He opened it and took out a handful of one-pound and ten-shilling notes. ‘Look,’ he said.

  ‘I expect she was saving it,’ Betty said.

  ‘Of course she was,’ said Stephen. ‘Heaps of it. There’s some in every pocket.’

  Betty glanced at Mrs Bennet, quite still on the bed. And yet, could she just be ill, in a trance or something? Was she going
to wake up and say, ‘Here, you two. What are you doing with my money?’

  Stephen’s eyes had taken on a furtive look. ‘I didn’t go to work today.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘I went to the hospital. I’ve got to go to a sanatorium.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My chest, for God’s sake. Otherwise I’d be in the Army.’ Betty had the feeling that this was an important moment. What was going to happen now would influence their whole lives. ‘The point is that you’ll be on your own … for a while.’

  ‘You will get better?’

  ‘Yes, but not too soon, I hope. I don’t want to get shipped off to France when they start up again. This money could see us through.’ He was whispering, almost as if he thought that the dead woman could hear. ‘Find a bag.’ It was an urgent command. Stephen had taken charge of this situation. She found a cloth shopping bag in the kitchen. ‘Hold it open.’ Then, with the speed and skill of a pickpocket, Stephen emptied the pockets. Bundles of notes in paper bags or in wads with elastic bands tumbled into the bag until it was nearly full. Betty was fearful but fascinated. She kept glancing at Mrs Bennet, but the old lady seemed completely inert.

  ‘Come on,’ said Stephen. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He closed the cupboard door. They were holding their breath as they got out into the corridor. They ran into Bunty on the landing coming out of the toilet. Bunty just looked at them belligerently and flounced back into her room. When they got to their room Stephen counted the notes. Three hundred and twenty pounds. A fortune.

  ‘There,’ said Stephen. ‘That should see us right for a while.’

  ‘But it’s not our money,’ Betty said, innocently.

  ‘It won’t do her any good now,’ Stephen said briskly, ‘but it’ll see us out of a hole. I bet that if the old dear knew she’d be pleased. D’you know, I think we could afford to move from here. Best thing to get away. As far as we can.’ Now was Betty’s chance to tell him about the flat in Balham.

  ‘It sounds ideal,’ he said. ‘When can we go?’

  ‘You have to pay a deposit. It’s five pounds.’

  ‘Five pounds,’ he laughed. ‘We could pay fifty pounds.’

  They packed up their things in a suitcase. Their possessions were pitifully small.

  ‘Don’t we have to give notice?’

  ‘Who to?’ Stephen seemed to have grown in stature since the find. ‘Now listen, Betty. We have to be very careful. We can’t put this money in a bank account.’

  ‘No,’ she said. Bank accounts were out of her orbit.

  ‘We must keep it and just use it as we need to. It’ll last a long time. I might be away for six months.’

  ‘Six months?’ she said, panicking.

  ‘But it’ll be all right. You’ll be able to come and see me. It’s just that I need fresh air and rest and no worries. Can’t you see? What has happened is a godsend. It’s as though someone up there was looking after us. It’s almost a miracle.’

  They walked down to the taxi rank. Betty had to carry the suitcase as Stephen was too weak, although he managed to carry the bag. They took a taxi to Balham and arrived just as the estate agent was closing. He seemed surprised and fussed at their sudden arrival. Stephen signed an agreement, and they were given the keys.

  Stephen was delighted with the flat. ‘I’d like to live here. I really would.’

  ‘But you can,’ she said, puzzled.

  ‘Not yet,’ he reminded her. ‘I’ve got to go into isolation for a while. I’ve got to go tomorrow.’

  Betty suddenly realized that there was nothing to eat. They had brought half a packet of tea and some sugar but no milk. She made Stephen lie on the bed while she hurried along the high street, but there were no shops open. She was just going to turn back when she caught the potent whiff of fish and chips. All they had was rock salmon, but they had chips, and she bore them back to the flat as though they were a banquet. Stephen had spread the money out on the bed. He sat there looking at it with immense enjoyment. She laid the table in the window, and they ate the meal as though it might be their last, followed by tea without milk. In fact, it would be their last, at least for a while, and she wanted Stephen to have happy memories of the flat.

  After eating Stephen placed the money in the drawer of the dressing-table with an expression of pride mixed with reverence. She had never seen so much money in one place. It looked like the inside of a till.

  ‘You must look after this,’ he said. ‘Don’t buy anything big. Just take what you need. Never have more than five pounds on you when you go out.’ He covered the money with newspaper and closed the drawer. ‘Put that bag in the dustbin,’ he said, looking very serious.

  That night Stephen slept soundly. It may have been the new surroundings, the money or the realization that he was ill and needed treatment, but he didn’t cough at all. Betty didn’t sleep so well. Mrs Bennet kept waking up, shouting: ‘You stole my money!’ Betty tried to placate her, but Mrs Bennet just got wilder and wilder. Betty awoke sweating with fear. Good dollops of good fortune were always paid for in the end.

  She need not have worried. A German bomber, on its way back after dropping its load on the City, found a last bomb that would not dislodge. The pilot banked the plane and the bomb finally rolled into place. It was a direct hit on number seventy-seven. Bunty and Tim were in bed. In spite of herself, Bunty was beginning to submit to Tim’s caresses. When it came to it Bunty couldn’t help herself. She was still cross with him, but that wasn’t going to stop her having her fun. They were buried and so was Edie underneath. The body of Mrs Bennet was never found.

  Maurice was furious with Bernard. He spoke to Bella on the phone. His sister wasn’t surprised. ‘He always was an opportunist,’ she said.

  ‘But he’s assumed the control of the business.’

  ‘You’ll have to see the solicitors,’ Bella replied. ‘He can’t do that.’

  ‘It looks as though he’s done it. It’ll take ages to go through the courts. No, I’m going over to see him.’

  Meanwhile Bernard was revelling in his new-found freedom. He had made a speculative run and was surprised at the orders he gathered. Some of the shops were willing to let him send anything he thought suitable: ‘You know what we want. Just send it. It’ll be all right.’ Even though it was effectively a new business he had to use the Green’s connection to get the discount. Later he would register a new name and deal directly with the publishers as a new client. Miss Tcherny came every morning. She soon processed the orders, and he packed the stuff for the carriers. They charged extra for coming out to Ealing, but he would still show a healthy profit.

  He liked Miss Tcherny coming in. He got fed up with his own company. The people he had let the upstairs to were a snooty pair. Just came in and out without a word. They paid the rent all right. That was all he was going to get from them. That was why he went out a lot. It was all right for Maurice, comfortably married to Clare. Not that Bernard ever fancied Clare. It would be like going to bed with a battleship. He had nearly got married once, that was when he bought the house, but the cow had cleared off with the best man on the eve of the wedding. He wasn’t so much hurt as angry. The wedding had been arranged and the honeymoon paid for in advance. And he had felt such a fool trying to contact people to tell them not to come. And some of them did come, all dressed up to the nines, with fatuous smiles on their fatuous faces, who thought he was joking when he told them the wedding was off.

  After that bitter experience Bernard had been cautious. He wanted women, badly – his hungry eyes were everywhere, on the Underground, in bookshops, cinemas, shops – but he wasn’t going to be caught out again. He didn’t mind paying, so long as the fee was reasonable. That Bunty, for example, she thought she was worth twice what he was prepared to pay and got quite nasty when he flung down a quid, came at him with her eyes blazing, trying to scratch his eyes out. He was prepared to take his time with Miss Tcherny: the occasional drink, a meal, to thank her for coming in with him. He
r boyfriend had just been called up, so she was available, so to speak.

  He had found a new publisher who did reprints of American books in the pocket-paperbook form. They were all about gangsters and their molls, written in racy American slang, basic English that even a chimp could read. The paper was thick and rough, the printing too heavy, but the lurid covers, usually depicting a hard-faced woman with a pistol, promised more than they delivered. He could get a good deal on this line, provided he could order in bulk. After delivery he had a month to pay, and he reckoned he could shift the lot before the due date. He had never subscribed to the idea that dealing in books was some kind of holy calling. Books were merchandise. You bought them, and sold them at a profit, and that’s all there was in it.

  Miss Tcherny had finished for the day, but it was only two o’clock. She sat there in her tight jumper, wondering what time she could reasonably ask to leave. Bernard, feeling that things were going well, was smiling and relaxed. Sometimes he saw Miss Tcherny as an efficient employee, sometimes as a pretty girl and sometimes as a temptation. It was when he felt light-hearted that he would dare himself. What could he lose? She could only say no. She wouldn’t give up a cushy job so easily. He came up behind her and slipped his arms around her, grabbing her breasts.

  ‘Stop it,’ she shouted. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ It was the time for Bernard to retreat into a shame-faced apology, but Bernard, in this mood, thought that her protests were just playful resistance.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You know how I feel about you.’

  She twisted herself out of his grasp. ‘For God’s sake,’ she said. ‘Get a hold of yourself.’ It was the same as before. This woman was shouting at him, belittling him. That actress tart had condescended to speak to him and then asked for money before he’d even made up his mind. These women, they drove him crazy, played games with him. He didn’t want to get out of control again. He released Miss Tcherny, who was holding her neck, looking at him as though he was a dangerous madman.