But Southend tourism was a thing of the past these days—barbed wire strung along the beach, aimed to keep out the invading German hordes, kept out holiday fun-seekers, as well—and then the boardinghouse, which was on the verge of going broke anyway, got commandeered by the military.
Mum had left Mary Jane in Southend with Uncle Rodney and Aunt Grace—whose restaurant business had survived, thanks to the soldiers—and, while Mary Jane carried on with school and all, Mum had found a position as a banker’s secretary, in London.
This, at least, was what Mary Jane’s mother had told her. But Mary Jane had suspicions otherwise. First, Uncle Rod and Auntie Grace gave each other funny looks, whenever Mary Jane—receiving monthly envelopes of cash from London—commented on Mum’s secretarial situation. And Mary Jane herself knew Mum had never had anything like training in that line of work.
She wondered if Mum were a waitress or a cleaning woman or such like, and was ashamed to say so to her little girl, particularly after they’d had such a nice life at the Seaside Inn. She also wondered, sometimes, if her late father had really died when Mary Jane was two; she was at an age where the thought did occur to her that her father, who was just a grinning face in some faded photographs, might have simply run off and left Mum and her to fend.
When the girl came to London, once every six weeks or so, to spend a weekend with Mum (and Scottie, who Uncle Rod had not welcomed), Mary Jane longed to ask her mother these and other related questions. But somehow Mary Jane could not bring herself to do so. Mum seemed so sad, these days.
Funny thing was, Mum didn’t say she was sad or act sad, and in fact, around Mary Jane, she smiled rather too much, if anything. Mary Jane sensed something forced about Mum’s good mood, and her over-involved anecdotes about herself and co-workers at the bank, and how she was the bank president’s “right-hand gal.”
Now, as she knocked on the door for the twentieth time, with Scottie on the other side, yapping and yowling (despite the girl’s assurances: “It’s only me, love”), Mary Jane trembled with an intermingling of frustration and fear….
Outside the door, next to where Mary Jane had set down her little tan suitcase, was a wrapped parcel addressed to her mother. Its presence, this late in the day, on the doorstep, struck Mary Jane as odd.
Mum had said in her letter that she’d be taking Thursday and Friday off, to spend with Mary Jane, who had a long weekend because of end of exams. Staying in Mum’s flat was always rather harrowing—it seemed to Mary Jane little more than a glorified prison cell, really.
Mum said nice rooms were hard to come by, ’cause of the war and all, though Mary Jane suspected her mother was living so close to the bone so’s she could send Mary Jane (and her uncle and aunt) all that money. But the girl always had a wonderful time, visiting Mum, and this weekend would be no exception. They would do all sorts of fun things together—take Scottie to the park, go to the cinema, perhaps spend an afternoon at Harrod’s, pretending they could afford to buy something.
But with an unclaimed parcel on Mum’s doorstep, and no response to ardent knocking, and Scottie going simply mad barking, Mary Jane felt herself teetering on the edge of panic. She knew she was being silly, but she couldn’t help imagining the most tragic things… particularly with what the newspapers were saying about a Blackout Ripper and all….
Absurd! Ridiculous! That fiend targeted streetwalkers, not bank secretaries… or waitresses, even, or charwomen. Her mum had simply got called away, had to go in for work, last minute. Probably the bank president himself. How could Mum say no to him?
Not sure what else to do, Mary Jane knocked on the door of the neighboring flat, Scottie’s yapping sounding pitiful now.
The woman who answered was pretty, in a haggard sort of way, and was wearing a dark blue dressing gown; her platinum hair was up in pin curls, and she seemed to have just about applied half of her makeup—one eye, a beauty mark and her roughed-in lip rouge. She had a cigarette in one red-nailed hand and smoke curled like a question mark.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Mary Jane said, for she had never met her mother’s neighbor before, “but I’m Mrs. Lowe’s daughter, here for