Blue Door Venture Read online

  ‘I wonder—’ Nigel just had time to breathe, and then the door was flung open. On the threshold stood an untidy little woman, smiling questioningly at them. She had Lucky’s gay beady eyes and red cheeks. Her hair was escaping from a small bun on the back of her head, she wore a large apron splashed with soap-suds and she held her wet soapy hands out in front of her.

  ‘Just doin’ me smalls,’ she cried cheerfully. ‘Sorry, all.’

  ‘Lucky in?’ asked Nigel briskly, tipping his hat.

  ‘Oh, no!’ She expressed surprise at the question. ‘Lucky’s away on a job. Bin gone a long time. Down the country somewhere. I got ’is address. ’Ere, come in and I’ll dry me ’ands and see if I can find it.’ They crowded into the tiny passage, and she bustled off.

  ‘On a job…’ murmured Nigel. ‘Do you think that means she knows what he does?’ She came bustling back with a piece of paper in her hand. ‘’Ere we are.’ She read out slowly, ‘The—Blue—Door—Theaytre—Fenchester.’ They could have screamed with disappointment.

  Nigel broke in with, ‘Oh, Mrs—er—Green, we—we saw Lucky at Fenchester. But he’s not there any more.’

  ‘No? Oh, well, I dunno then. ’E’s a good boy, is Lucky, but not much of a one for letter writing. Mind, ’e writes when ’e can. Oh, ’e’s a good boy in ’is way—’

  ‘You don’t know what sort of—job he’s likely to be on now?’

  ‘Same as the last, like as not. Theaytre business, you know. Pays well, ’e says. Oh, ’e’s got ’is wits about ’im, ’as Lucky. But straight as a die, if you know what I mean. I always says to ’im when ’e was little, “Just you stick to the straight and narrer, me boy, never mind if you’re not a millionaire.”’

  She laughed richly. ‘But ’e ’asn’t done too bad on the straight and narrer—you chaps in the same business?’

  ‘Yes. More or less. And we’ve got a scheme we wanted to interest Lucky in. You haven’t any idea when he might be coming back to town?’

  ‘No—sorry. ’E might be ’ere now. ’E doesn’t always stay at ’ome when ’e’s in town, y’know. Sometimes ’e’s in the West End, so as to be near ’is business.’ She scratched her head thoughtfully. ‘Now let me see… where might you find him? ’Course, ’e might walk in this door this very minute. You never know, with Lucky. ’Ere one minute—gorn the next—’

  ‘You’ve said it,’ agreed Bulldog. They had turned involuntarily to look at the door, but no Lucky appeared. Her brown eyes were alight with pride.

  ‘Oh, that’s the day, I tell you,’ she continued, ‘when ’e comes back. Pops up like a jack-in-the-box, grinning all over ’is face. “Ullo, old lady,” ’e says—always calls me that—“’ere’s yer bad penny turned up again.”’ She laughed happily, then added tenderly, ‘And the presents ’e brings me—stockings—well, you never saw anything like them. Much too thin to wear, mind, but nice to keep by you fer weddings and funerals, like…’

  The three boys were by now a bit embarrassed by this cascade of praise for the boy they were tracking down.

  ‘And then ’e says, “Come on, old lady, you an’ me are goin’ out ’ittin the ’igh spots.” An’ out I ’ave to go, all dolled up, y’know. An’ sometimes it’s the dogs, or the music ’all or the pitchers; oh, we do ’ave a time…’ Her face fell a bit. ‘But I’d rather he stayed at ’ome a bit longer, than spent all that on me at once and then ’ave to go away on another job straight away.’

  Nigel took advantage of the pause to say, ‘Well if you really can’t help us—’ But Mrs Green was unwilling to lose her audience.

  ‘No, wait a tick, and I’ll ’ave another think… Might find ’im anywhere in the West End—goes to the races a lot, too. Let me think—’

  ‘Where does he eat usually?’ asked Jeremy suddenly. Her face lightened.

  ‘Why, yes, of course. What am I thinking of! Nick’s place, o’ course.’

  ‘Where?’ they asked quickly, all together.

  ‘Nick’s Caff, it’s called. I’m not sure where it is, but ’e talks about it quite a bit. In the West End, I think—or is it at the Elephant? No—up West, that’s it.’

  ‘But where?’ asked Nigel agonized. She thought again.

  ‘Oh, blowed if I know…’ she said eventually. ‘Take me up West and I’m lost, I tell you.’

  They looked at each other hopelessly, then Nigel said, ‘O.K., Mrs Green. We’ll go and have a look for him.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she nodded encouragingly. ‘You hang round up West and you’ll bump into him all right. If he’s not in the country of course—and tell ’im ’is old lady’d like a look of him one of these days—’

  ‘Yes, we’ll tell him.’ They made for the front door, which she opened for them.

  ‘Well, I ’ope you find ’im. And if ’e comes ’ome, what names shall I say are lookin’ for ’im?’

  ‘Er—Jack—and Pete—and Joe,’ said Nigel quickly, before the others had time to speak.

  ‘Jack ’n’ Pete ’n’ Joe. Right you are. I’ll tell ’im.’ She waved with the corner of her apron and then closed the door.

  They walked down the street in silence, then Nigel said heavily, ‘Oh, gosh! I wish all this had never happened. She believes in him just like our mothers believe in us.’

  ‘He’s a better son to his mother than we are to ours,’ observed Bulldog lugubriously. ‘I’m sure we never make ours as happy as she is when he comes back.’

  ‘But he’s going to make her jolly unhappy before long,’ Nigel reminded them. ‘That’s the worst of it. If he gets sent to prison it will break her heart!’ For a moment their resolve weakened, then Nigel said, ‘But we must think of the Blue Door Theatre.’

  ‘And the girls.’

  ‘And our parents. They’ll want us home as much as Lucky’s mother wants him—’

  ‘Oh, let’s stop drooling,’ said Bulldog, pushing his hat to the back of his head. ‘We’ve got to find Nick’s Caff somewhere in the West End. That’s a pretty tough proposition you know.’

  ‘Not so tough,’ said Nigel. ‘Let’s go into this phone-box and look through the directory.’ The three of them crammed into the box and turned over the dog-eared pages.

  ‘Nick’s Autocars,’ read Jeremy; ‘Nick’s Bar—Nick’s Barber’s Shop—bother—the rest of the page is torn out.’

  ‘How maddening.’ They walked about a mile to the next phone-box and read the rest of the page. But it was not much help to them. Nick’s Hairdressing Salon and Nick’s Music Stores—but no Nick’s Caff. They looked at each other in despair, then left the phone-box.

  ‘Here we come, Nick,’ said Bulldog determinedly.

  9

  THE OPEN ROAD

  The three girls plodded along the dark roads, talking busily to try to forget that they were alone between the hedges that curved dimly in front of them. They had begun planning the clothes they would buy when the money was found.

  ‘And then I’d have a green velvet evening dress with a very low neck,’ continued Vicky, then broke off abruptly as an eerie sound came from the field on their left.

  ‘What’s that?’ she hissed in a terrified whisper. They stood very still, and Sandra peered through a gap in the hedge. Then she gave a hoot of laughter.

  ‘It’s only a cow, you idiot.’ Vicky started off again, more quickly than before.

  ‘Well, I’m not all that fond of cows…’

  The heavier their cases became, the more exotic were their imaginary outfits. In the middle of describing a particularly luscious gold lamé house-coat, Sandra suddenly said, ‘You know, if we’re not careful we shall hardly be far out of Fenchester by daylight. That would be ridiculous.’ Even as she was speaking, a faint buzz was heard in the distance.

  ‘A car—a lorry—something, at any rate,’ cried Sandra.

  ‘Quick, Vicky, is the torch working?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vicky, flicking it on and off.

  They waited in a row by the roadside, and the headlights of a ca
r grew gradually nearer. They signalled wildly, shouting ‘Stop—Stop…’ It was a large shiny car, and, as it drew up beside them they were horrified to see that on the front of it in large green letters was the word ‘Taxi’.

  ‘Oh, how mouldy!’ sighed Vicky. The taxi-man did not seem at all surprised to see them.

  ‘Where do you want?’ he inquired. They did not quite know what to say.

  ‘Er—we haven’t really got much money…’ explained Lyn embarrassed. ‘You see, we’re hitch-hiking.’

  ‘How far are you going?’

  ‘Well—quite a long way—’

  ‘I’m going as far as Helmingthorpe. I’ll give you a lift that far, if you like.’ This was a small town about seven miles away. Thankfully they accepted the offer. It was warm and roomy inside and they curled up on the broad seat and were soon fast asleep.

  ‘We’d need hats as well,’ murmured Vicky, returning to the previous conversation, just before she dropped off into a heavy sleep.

  They were wakened by a shaft of sunlight, and sat up, blinking. The taxi was standing in a small garage, and the sudden light had been caused by the opening of the doors. The taxi-man, grinning broadly, was walking towards them with three cups of tea on a tray. He opened the door with one hand, balancing the tray on the other.

  ‘Your ladyships’ tea,’ he called out.

  ‘Goodness!’ gasped Sandra. ‘Is it morning? I mean, have we been here all night?’

  The taxi-man laughed. ‘You have. When I put the old cab to bed last night you were sleeping like babes, so I didn’t disturb you. And now you’d better come in and have a wash and brush up. The wife is cooking us a bit of breakfast.’ He was a short plump man with thinning sandy-coloured hair and a friendly manner. The house was small but cosy, and the kitchen smelt deliciously of bacon and eggs as they made their way through it and up to the bathroom.

  His wife seemed to take their presence for granted as much as he did, and provided them with soap and towels so that they did not need to unpack their tightly crammed little cases.

  ‘I’ve never enjoyed a wash so much,’ gasped Lyn, splashing cold water on her face.

  Downstairs again in the kitchen they sat down to large plates of bacon and eggs, and demolished them speedily.

  ‘Going on holiday?’ asked their host.

  ‘Er—sort of,’ they answered.

  ‘Bit early, aren’t you?’ demanded his wife. They laughed non-committally.

  ‘Where are you making for?’

  ‘Cornwall,’ said Lyn.

  ‘Hitch-hiking all the way?’ the woman asked, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘We hope so.’

  ‘Well, it’s one way to get about. Have you come far?’

  ‘Not very,’ said Lyn cautiously, and began to admire the flowers in the garden outside the window. Sandra was worrying about whether they should pay for the breakfast. It seemed insulting to offer to, and yet presuming on kindness not to. As they got up from the table, Lyn said firmly, ‘Well, as we didn’t pay for our ride last night, you must let us pay for our breakfast.’

  ‘Get along with you,’ cried the woman, horrified at the suggestion. ‘The eggs are from our own chickens, and the ham from my brother-in-law’s pig. What are you talking about?’ The girls thanked their hosts profusely, and said that they must be on their way.

  ‘I’ve got to do a job over the other side of Helmingthorpe at ten o’ clock,’ said the taxi-driver, ‘so if you wait a bit, I’ll take you when I go to collect my passenger. O.K.?’

  They whiled away the time walking round the garden which was well stocked with flowers and vegetables, and watching the chickens squawking and fluttering in their runs. At five to ten they piled into the taxi again, and, shouting goodbyes to their benefactress, they were driven off.

  ‘Well, if we’re as lucky as this all the way, it won’t be too bad,’ remarked Sandra. They were quite sorry to leave their taxi-man, and his cab, but it was a brisk sunny morning and they strode off down the country road in fine style, taking deep breaths of the fresh air.

  ‘This ought to do us a lot of good after the awful weather we’ve had, and being shut up indoors in the theatre all day,’ said Sandra.

  ‘But we mustn’t forget our aim,’ said Lyn. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to enjoy ourselves so much that we’ll forget to look for work.’

  ‘Oh, no, we shan’t,’ said Vicky, ‘but let’s get to the farthest point west where there is a theatre, and then we can really start.’

  Their next lift was in a bread van which took them a few miles, with Lyn and Sandra squashed in the front beside the driver and Vicky in the back amongst the loaves. They smelt delicious and made her feel hungry, even though it was so soon after breakfast.

  ‘I wonder how the boys are getting on,’ mused Lyn.

  ‘I wonder if our parents have found our notes yet,’ said Sandra.

  ‘I bet Maddy’s wondering how we’re getting on,’ said Vicky.

  ‘’Ere, I say,’ said the baker suddenly, ‘you ’aven’t run away from ’ome, ’ave yer?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Sandra. ‘We’re taking our holidays early this year.’ But he looked at them suspiciously, and put them down at the next corner.

  ‘Look here,’ said Lyn, when they were alone again, ‘we’d better get a story and stick to it. The truth is no good—it’s too improbable. No-one would believe it.’

  ‘I know what,’ said Vicky. ‘Let’s take it in turn to explain what we’re doing—then we can tell a different story each time. It’ll give us something to think about.’

  ‘But they must be possible stories,’ said Sandra, ‘and we mustn’t giggle, otherwise it’ll spoil it.’

  ‘A good job Maddy isn’t here. She’d tell the most amazing lies.’ They were silent for a little while, walking along swinging their cases and thinking up reasons for their presence on the road at this time of year. The next car that came along was very smart—long and shiny and upholstered in dove grey. It was driven by an elderly lady in a smart hat and elaborate make-up. She stopped when they pointed their thumbs in the direction she was going, and said, ‘Er—yes?’

  ‘Could you give us a lift?’ Lyn asked politely. She looked at them questioningly. ‘Have you missed the bus?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sandra quickly.

  ‘How far are you going?’

  They hastily tried to think of the next town along the route but could not.

  ‘Where are you making for?’ asked Lyn.

  ‘Castleford.’

  ‘Oh, that would be lovely. If you don’t mind…’

  They clambered in, frightened of marking the smart upholstery that made their shabby coats and slacks look worse than ever.

  ‘It’s rather risky, isn’t it?’ inquired the lady, ‘stopping cars on the road like this. I mean, you never know—’

  ‘Oh, we thought you looked honest,’ said Lyn nonchalantly. Sandra glared at her.

  ‘I mean—well, it was very good of you to pick us up.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the lady asked anxiously. ‘I mean, you’re not in need of help, or anything?’

  ‘If only you knew how much we need some help…’ thought Lyn, then said, ‘Oh, no. It’s quite all right, really. We’re on our way to Penzance for a Girl Guides Rally. We wanted so much to go there, but we couldn’t afford the fare.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame!’ cried the good lady. ‘Well, I’ll certainly take you as far as I can, but I haven’t got much petrol, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, thank you very much,’ they said, feeling rather guilty about their fabrications. She took them well beyond Castleford, and put them down with many good wishes for reaching the rally safely.

  ‘That was a jolly good story,’ said Vicky. ‘I’m afraid all my ideas were much less possible than that.’

  ‘But it sounds more possible than the truth does, doesn’t it?’ said Sandra. ‘Imagine trying to explain the truth to anyone. It would sound like absolute fiction.’
r />   ‘I say,’ complained Lyn, ‘I’m jolly thirsty. I wonder if we could get a glass of milk from this farm?’ They walked through a yard where a large sheep dog barked a welcome at them, and the farmer’s wife came to the door of the big stone-floored kitchen. For twopence each they were soon drinking glasses of beautiful creamy milk with a froth on top. Much refreshed, they started off again, singing numbers from the pantomime at the tops of their voices. Several cars passed them by with a suspicious stare, but it was such a lovely day that they hardly minded. Then a neat little car driven by a woman of about thirty stopped and picked them up.

  ‘How far are you going?’ she inquired.

  ‘As far as you can take us.’

  ‘Well, I’m going a long way, almost into Devon.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ cried Sandra. ‘Can we come with you?’

  ‘Of course. Jump in.’ They flung themselves into the back, and she started off while they were still sorting out limbs and suitcases. She was neatly dressed in a tweed suit and felt hat, and there was something about her that made them think of a schoolmistress. ‘And where are you girls off to?’ she asked after a while. She had a very pleasant voice, rich and deep.

  ‘Penzance,’ said Sandra.

  ‘And very nice too, especially at this time of year. It’s so much pleasanter in Cornwall out of the tourist season. You’re sensible to choose the very early spring like this, though it’s a good job you didn’t start off a few weeks earlier.’

  They chatted about the bad weather they had suffered, and Sandra said without thinking, ‘I’ll never forget how cold I was during the week we did Murder in Mid-Channel.’

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed the driver, ‘of course. You’re from The Blue Door Theatre at Fenchester, aren’t you? I thought I’d seen you somewhere. I often stay at Helmingthorpe, and I go over to Fenchester just to go to the theatre. How are things?’ There was a pause, and then it all came out in a rush—the bad weather, the success of the pantomime and Lucky’s disappearance with the takings. She listened sympathetically, only inquiring, ‘And what are you doing now?’ They were shy of telling her—it seemed such a hare-brained scheme—but when they had explained, she nodded approvingly. ‘It’s certainly better than waiting for the police to get him. And I do hope you will be able to make ends meet while the search is on. I’m especially interested in your activities because I am a Drama Organizer for the West Country District.’