Page 3 of Beatrix

‘You got a problem, dearie?’ A pair of old but serviceable shoes almost completely covered by an equally practical skirt appeared in front of his bent head.

Heart in his throat at the sudden voice, Billy looked up to see a woman about the age of his ma looking at him in concern, leading him to conclude that his customary ability to become invisible definitely wasn’t as effective in larger, more intimidating surroundings. ‘I…’ he started, only to have the note he was perusing whipped out of his hand. Indignation replaced fear, and he declared heatedly, ‘Oi, Mrs, that’s mine. Give it back.’

The woman ignored his outstretched hand as she stared down at the address. Despite her worn clothing, her demeanour was not that of a pauper – or a trollop, for that matter. After a second, she looked up. ‘Sounds very grand. You ain’t plannin’ on walkin’ ‘ere, are yer, lad?’ she declared, handing the note back.

‘Wot’s it to you, Mrs?’ Billy retorted. To his horror, his voice had a definite quake in it.

‘I reckon it’ll take yer ‘til midnight is all.’ The woman shrugged and sighed. ‘Believe it or not, I ain’t in the ‘abit o’ snatchin’ kids off the street, but yer right ter be chary, boy. There are a bloody lot wot are.’ Since he’d had more experience than most of the many hornswogglers that preyed on children, Billy didn’t waste time arguing. Instead, he began edging to one side, intending to scarper as soon as he’d put enough distance between him and the strange woman.

To his surprise, however, she stepped to the side, leaving his exit clear. ‘Don’t let me keep yer duckie,’ she chuckled. ‘I can see yer in an ‘urry. If you decide yer want a bit ‘o ‘elp gettin’ there, I’ll be in the Dog and Duck over the road. Ask fer Gladys.’ With that she gave him a quick pat on the head and turned to go. After a few steps, she paused and turned back. ‘A word o’ warnin’, dearie. That address yer got written down ain’t in the swankiest part o’ town, despite the fancy name, so you watch yer back.’ With a cautionary shake of her head, she continued on towards the exit, leaving Billy to stare uneasily after her.

As she disappeared, he felt a surge of panic, then took himself to task, telling himself sternly to, ‘ger a bit o’ bloody bottle, Bill.’ Determinedly he marched in the same direction, and eventually came out of the station, directly in front of a large church. Billy frowned, staring at the bell tower. Was it him, or was the tower leaning to one side? In a sudden panic, he stepped back into the station entrance, wondering if the whole thing was about to come tumbling down. Then he looked round at the dozens of people hurrying in all directions without so much as a single glance upwards. None of them paid any heed to the church tower. Surely they couldn’t all be unmindful of the danger.

Billy frowned. Either Bristol had more than its fair share of mutton heads, or the tower wasn’t actually just about to fall down and flatten everyone beneath it.

Cautiously, he stepped back out through the door. Almost against his will, his eyes were drawn to the Dog and Duck pub standing to the side of the leaning tower. Very handy for the vicar. He gave a small snigger, before sobering. Did his would-be saviour work behind the bar? How bloody bacon-brained would he need to be to waltz in there bold as you like?

Then he looked round. He had no idea where he was, or how far away the address on his note might be. Gladys whatserface said it was a long way, but she could easily have been feeding him a plumper. Perhaps he’d be better to go straight back into the station and stow away on the next train back to Paignton. The problem was, having seen the size of Bristol station, he didn’t think fare dodging from this end would be quite as easy.

He bit his lip, already sore from gnawing at it earlier. The thing was, he was certain Mr Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have given up this early in the game. He knew the place on his note was where Muriel Pemberton had gone. He doubted Mrs Peters could have made it up if she’d tried.

The Society for the Advancement of Industrious Children was a bloody dead give-away.

* * *

Strangely reluctant to follow her aunt and their unexpected guest into the drawing room, Beatrix hung back for a few seconds, watching the equally effusive greeting levelled at Rob Noon by Henry Shackleford. Indeed, the last time she’d seen her father so animated was… well, never really. Curiously she studied the man. Older than her by a good few years, she guessed. His almost silver-coloured hair had likely been bleached by a life lived in a much sunnier climate than that of England, and the golden brown of his skin suggested a love of the outdoors. The combination was unusual, and she had to admit, very arresting. Add his impressive height to the mix, and Bea knew he’d never be overlooked.

‘Beatrix.’ The sudden shout dragged her from her reverie. Clearly her father hadn’t been aware she was merely feet away, standing in the doorway. Gritting her teeth, she stepped into the room.

‘Rob, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Beatrix.’

‘Daughter?’ Rob visibly winced, looking over at her. ‘I do hope you’ll forgive my earlier error, Miss Shackleford. I think perhaps I am still suffering from motion sickness.’ His voice was apologetic but not obsequious, and he followed it with an irrepressible grin, very obviously laughing at himself. A sudden, unfamiliar flutter deep in her stomach had her tongue tied for possibly the first time in her life.

With an exasperated look towards her silent niece, Charlotte jumped into the sudden hush. ‘Of course, I’d have preferred Arabella to have been the one to greet you, but alas, she is engaged elsewhere. I do hope Beatrix’s dearth of manners doesn’t lower your opinion of us, Robert. In truth, she’s not usually so restrained.’ Though accustomed to her aunt’s proclivity for eating vinegar with a fork – the foremost reason the matron was singularly lacking in anything more than acquaintances – Beatrix nevertheless felt her face flame in mortification.

Red-faced, she glared at her aunt before conducting a small curtsey, and declaring prettily how absolutely delighted she was to meet him.

‘If it please you, Aunt Charlotte,’ she continued in the same sugary voice, ‘I will go and ask Mrs Williams to prepare a tray of tea.’

Without waiting for a reply, she retreated with a defiant swish of her skirts.

Of course, she knew she’d likely pay for it later, but the look on her aunt’s face was worth it. Unexpectedly, she found herself giggling as she hurried towards the kitchen. What on earth must their cousin in all but blood think of them?

* * *

As Billy stared over at the lopsided church tower and the people milling about underneath it, a strange feeling of unreality enveloped him. This was so far removed from Paignton he might as well have been on the moon, and he found himself doing something he usually went to great pains to avoid. Which is to say nothing at all. His ma called it shilly shallying and Billy knew better than to let her catch him at it since it generally earned him a swift clip round the ear at the very least.

He'd also learned the hard way that it drew attention - usually at precisely the wrong moment. Although he’d never given it much thought, Billy’s habitual ability to blend in with his surroundings rested entirely on him not shilly shallying. He instinctively recognised that as long as he looked as though he was engaged in legitimate business, most people generally overlooked him.

But right now, his shilly shallying would have earned him first prize in a competition and a clip round both ears. The terrible truth was that his normally reliable composure had finally, unquestionably done a runner. As he stood wavering in the station doorway, he couldn’t for the life of him think what he should do next.

And sure enough, mere seconds later he spied an officious-looking individual making a determined path straight for him with a face that wouldn’t have looked amiss on the wrong side of a jail cell.

Billy’s heart slammed against his skinny ribs. Squeezing his hands tight enough for his nails to draw blood, he resisted the urge to follow hard on the heels of his already absent composure. But doing a runner in full view of some bloody railway bootlicker would be just as bad as shilly shallying, and could well see him end up with a lot worse than a thick ear.

Forcing back a whimper, Billy found his eyes drawn back to the pub nestling in the shadow of the church tower. Gladys whatserface. Right now, it was all he had. Taking a deep breath, he ignored the rapidly approaching official and strode purposefully out of the station towards the Dog and Duck. Not too fast and not too slow. He could hear the sound of the man’s hobnailed boots behind him, and gritting his teeth, resisted the urge to look back or break into a run. At length, as he approached the edge of Station Square adjacent to the main road, the footsteps began to recede, and by the time he stood on the road’s edge, directly opposite the pub, they’d disappeared.

Before stepping out into the queue of carriages waiting to turn into the Square, Billy risked a glance behind him and stumbled slightly. The ratbag was still there, watching from a distance.