His head cleared the top, his voice loud. ‘Emma, where’s my bloody dinner?’
‘I kept it hot for as long as possible. You’ll find a few slices of Spam on a plate, but the potatoes will be cold.’
He muttered something, his head disappearing again, and Emma sighed with relief. She felt Susan stir beside her, but thankfully she didn’t wake up, and as Emma closed her eyes against the sound of her father crashing about downstairs, her thoughts focused instead on Mr Bell’s lovely house.
When Emma was leaving for work the next morning, Liz Dunston was waiting for her on the ground floor. With the largest flat and a small back garden, she thought herself a cut above the rest of them. Her husband was a milkman, up at the crack of dawn, and she had one son, who, at fifteen years old was a butcher’s apprentice.
The tall, statuesque woman folded her arms across her chest, her voice high with indignation. ‘Emma, the racket your father made when he came home last night woke my husband again. I’ve tried talking to him, but he ignores me, and when I came out to complain he swore at me.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Dunston.’
Her face softened a little. ‘I’m not blaming you, girl, but this can’t go on. If it doesn’t stop I’ll be forced to complain to the landlord.’
‘Oh, please, don’t do that.’
‘He’s on his last chance, Emma. Have a word with him, will you?’
Emma murmured yes, but knew her father wouldn’t take any notice of her. God, she’d be mortified if Mrs Dunston complained to Mr Bell. She wouldn’t be able to look him in the face-and what if he gave her the sack?
Emma was still worrying when she reached Clapham Common. Letting herself into the house, she was surprised to see her employer in the hall.
‘Hello, Emma,’ he said, smiling pleasantly. ‘Why the long face?’
‘It’s nothing, sir.’
‘Now then, how many times have I told you not to call me sir? I’ll be off in a minute or two, but I noticed that you cleaned my study yesterday. Did you move any papers from my desk?’
‘Oh, no, Mr Bell, I didn’t touch your desk.’
‘Blast, I can’t find them and need them urgently. I’ll have another look.’ He turned on his heels, heading for his study.
Emma went to get cleaning materials. As was her routine, she started with the drawing room. It looked lovely as she walked in, a ray of sun shining through the bay window and alighting on a crystal decanter. The cut glass sparkled in a rainbow of colours, and for a moment she stood mesmerised, but then, giving herself a mental shake, she started work. Alongside the sofa there was a small side table, and on it some papers. Emma glanced at the top sheet, saw it was a letter from a firm of solicitors, and picking them up, took them across to the study.
‘Are these the papers you’re looking for, Mr Bell?’
He came to her side, his eyes lighting up. ‘Well done, Emma,’ he cried and, putting an arm around her shoulder, he briefly hugged her.
Emma immediately stiffened, pulling away as she said, ‘They…they were in the drawing room.’
‘Of course, I was reading through them last night and forgot to return them to the study. Well done for finding them, my dear. Now I must get a move on or I’ll be late for my appointment and as I may not be back today, I’ll leave it to you to lock up as usual.’
Emma nodded, confused by Mr Bell’s familiarity. He had hugged her, called her ‘my dear’, and she wondered what had come over him. Perhaps he was just pleased about the papers, but she left the study relieved that he was going to be out for the rest of the day.
Horace Bell was smiling as he headed for his solicitor’s office. Tom Chambers was playing into his hands, just as he had hoped, the rent unpaid as usual. The more he saw of Emma, the more he desired her, and was growing impatient. Nevertheless, he would have to let the arrears accrue for another few weeks before putting his plan into action.
He passed St Barnabas’ Church, his thoughts still on Emma. It would work, he was sure of it. As before, he was determined that things would be different this time, and in Emma he had found the perfect choice. She was young, meek, innocent, and could be easily moulded.
Horace was on time for his appointment, and after going over the finer points of the deal with his solicitor, he signed the documents, passing over the cheque. Another three houses were now in his hands, and they were in good condition. He’d divide them into flats as usual, and as they were in a better part of Battersea, they’d command more rent.
The next stop was the bank, and after that he’d go round to see Joyce. It had been nearly a week since he’d last seen her, and his loins stirred. Yet he knew when he made love to his mistress, in his imagination, the woman beneath him would be Emma Chambers.
Horace walked down the dimly lit road on a Saturday night, determination in his stride. He knew that Tom Chambers had been trying to avoid him, and when he reached the man’s local, he flung open the door. The dark and gloomy public bar was crowded, men in caps standing at the counter, others sitting at rickety tables, ashtrays overflowing in front of them.
Smoke tainted the air, and as heads turned conversation ceased when Horace walked towards the bar. He knew that in his dark suit, collar and tie, he stood out like a sore thumb, but many of these men were his tenants and he ignored them.
‘Hello, Tom,’ he said as the buzz of conversation started up again.
Tom swung round, immediately defensive. ‘If you’re looking for your rent, I’ll pay you next Friday.’
‘Yes, you said that last week, and the week before. In fact you’re now a further six weeks in arrears.’
Tom hunched over the bar, his voice a hiss: ‘I got laid off again, but I’ve got a job on another site, starting on Monday.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘Look, you’ve got Emma working for you and can keep more of her wages.’
‘The rent isn’t Emma’s responsibility, it’s yours, and I’m not prepared to let the arrears mount any further. Either you pay up, or you’ll be evicted.’
‘Don’t say that, Mr Bell. Surely you can give me a bit more time?’
‘No, your time is up.’
‘You can’t put us on the streets. What about the kids?’
He looked at Tom’s pint of ale, unable to hide his disgust. ‘You seem to have money for drink.’
‘I’m only having one. Surely you don’t begrudge me that?’
‘When you owe me a substantial amount of money, I do.’
Tom glanced along the bar, obviously embarrassed that other customers could hear their conversation. He pointed to an empty table in the corner. ‘Can we sit down?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘What can I get you, sir?’ the landlord asked Horace.
‘Just give me a glass of port.’
‘What about you, Tom?’ the publican asked.
Horace ignored Tom’s glance in his direction. If the man wanted another, he could pay for it himself.
‘Not for me,’ Tom said, picking up his half-empty glass. They walked to the table, taking opposite seats.
With a furtive look around, Tom’s voice was little more than a whisper: ‘Please,