Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [114]
She walked down the pavement with the wind pulling at her coat and the rain soaking her skirts. She was glad to reach the corner and the shelter of the grocer’s shop. As she went in the door the few women inside stopped talking and stared at her. One of them had a son who was a petty thief, serving six months in the Scrubs. She hated all police, and now was her chance to gain a little revenge with impunity. No one could blame her for it, nor defend the wife of a man who imprisoned other men, and then murdered a prostitute himself. She glared at Charlotte, hitched her basket onto her hip, and walked out of the shop, passing her so roughly that Charlotte was nearly knocked off balance, bruising her and leaving her startled by the suddenness as much as the pain. The other women tittered with amusement.
“Good mornin’, Mrs. Pitt, I’m sure!” one of them said loudly. “An’ ’ow are we today, then? Not so ’igh an’ mighty? Take our turn with the rest, will we?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte replied coldly. “I am quite well, thank you. Is your mother better? I heard she caught a chill in the rain.”
“She’s poorly,” the woman said, taken aback that Charlotte had not retaliated more in kind. “What’s it ter you?”
“Nothing at all, Mrs. Robertson, except good manners,” Charlotte answered. “Have you finished your purchases?”
“No I ’aven’t! You wait yer turn!” And she moved to stand square in front of the counter again, her eyes roving slowly over the shelves, deliberately taking as long as she could. There was nothing for Charlotte to do but contain her temper and wait.
The grocer shifted from one foot to the other, weighing where his profit lay, and chose the obvious. He ignored Charlotte and smiled toothily at Mrs. Robertson.
“I’ll ’ave ’alf a pound o’ sugar,” she said with satisfaction, tasting power like a sweet in her mouth. “Hif you please, Mr. Wilson.”
The grocer dipped into his sack and put half a pound little by little into the scales, then emptied it into a blue paper bag and gave it to her.
“I changed me mind.” She glanced at Charlotte maliciously, and then back at the grocer. “I’m feelin’ rich this mornin; I’ll ’ave an ’ole pound.”
“Yes, Mrs. Robertson. O’ course.” The grocer weighed another half pound carefully and gave it to her.
The door opened and the bell rang as another woman entered and took her place behind Charlotte.
“An’ I’ll ’ave some Pears’ soap,” Mrs. Robertson added. “Fer the complexion. It’s very good, in’t it, Mrs. Pitt? Is that wot you use? Not that yer’ll be able ter afford it now! Come down in yer ideas a bit, won’t yer?”
“Possibly. But it takes more than a bar of soap to make a beauty, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte said coldly. “Did you ever find your umbrella?”
“No I didn’t!” Mrs. Robertson said angrily. “There’s a lot o’ people round ’ere in’t as honest as they makes out. I reckon as somebody stole it!”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Call a policeman,” she said with a smile.
The woman glared at her, and this time it was the other woman who sniggered under her breath.
But the verbal victory was brief and gave her no pleasure, and at the baker’s it was worse, no jibes, only silence, until she was leaving, when there were whispers behind hands and a nodding of heads. She was asked for cash, and it was counted carefully before being put into the till with a snap. If things became hard, there would be no credit for her, she knew without asking—no allowances, and probably from now on no deliveries. The greengrocer made some excuse about being short of help, even though there was a boy standing idle over the sack of potatoes, obviously waiting for something to do, and Charlotte had to carry her heavy bags home herself. A boy of about nine or ten ran past her yelling, “Haya! Rozzer’s in the Steel! They’ll ’ang ’im fer sure! Dingle dangle, see ’im dance!” and did a little skip in and out of the gutter.
She tried to ignore him, but the words struck black terror in her, and by the time she got home, soaking wet,