That evening, as she sat down to tea with her mum and dad in their council house kitchen, she found herself excitedly telling them a little about her latest case. On the radio, Anthony Newley was singing ‘Do You Mind?’ The radio was only on at all because her father didn’t want to miss a repeat of Hancock’s Half Hour that was due to begin soon.
She was careful not to go into any detail, of course, mindful of the rules that stated police work should never be discussed with ‘civilians’. But she knew neither of her parents was happy with her career choice, and she wanted to point out to them that she was doing well in her chosen profession – even if she was gilding the lily a bit!
‘So you see, in letting me work in plain clothes, DI Jennings must be starting to trust me at last,’ she concluded, somewhat less-than-truthfully.
‘Well, I don’t know, our Trudy,’ said her mother, Barbara Loveday, worriedly. ‘Them students can get up to some wild things. And a drowned lad ain’t very nice.’ As she crossed the yellow-and-brown linoleum floor with the dirty plates and deposited them in the deep sink, she cast a concerned glance over her shoulder at her husband.
Frank Loveday had been a bus driver all his life. He was proud of his son, Martin, who worked as a carpenter for a building firm, since he considered him to be an artisan, and therefore a step up from his old man. And although he outwardly backed his wife up whenever she argued that Trudy should be thinking of finding a nice young man and settling down, he was, in fact, secretly even more proud of his daughter.
It took guts to join the police, and for a young slip of a girl… Even so, he wouldn’t have been human if he didn’t worry about her.
Now he folded his newspaper and looked at her over the top of it. She was a picture, her eyes shining with excitement and her cheeks flushed and happy. And he didn’t have the heart to bring her down.
Nevertheless, he felt a slight flutter of alarm in his stomach. When she walked the beat in her uniform, he felt fairly content that she would be safe. People admired and respected the police, and her uniform, he felt, offered her considerable protection.
But if she was going to go around dressed as any other girl, nosing about in something nasty… ‘Exactly what are you supposed to be doing for this here coroner chap, then, our Trudy?’ he asked gravely.
‘Oh, Dad – nothing dangerous! Nothing silly! I’m only going to go to some student hangouts, and chat and gossip! It’s not like I’m entering dens of iniquity or anything.’
By the sink, her mother heaved a massive sigh. She was counting out some money and putting it in a biscuit tin – which meant it was being put by for the rent. The money for the electric and water bills, which she took down to the post office and paid whenever they came in, was kept in an old Bisto tin and a canister marked ‘ginger’ respectively.
‘Lucky it’s summer and the electric bill won’t be so high this time,’ she muttered to herself, and Trudy felt a flash of something very close to shame.
Although she paid for her ‘keep’, she knew it wasn’t all that much, and probably didn’t go very far. The trouble was, her wages weren’t exactly generous. But she could always do without, couldn’t she? Stockings, for example, weren’t needed in the summer either.
‘Mum, would you like a little more for my keep each month?’ she asked, walking over to her and slipping her hands around her mother’s ample waist. ‘I can always make do…’
‘No, you won’t, then, our Trudy,’ Barbara Loveday said firmly. ‘Brian dropped by earlier. Wanted to know if you wanted to go to some dance or other on Saturday night. It’s time you had a pretty new dress to be seen out and about in. Your “best” is looking a bit dated now. You save your money up and treat yourself.’
Trudy, well aware her mother considered Brian Bayliss, a boy she’d known since infant school, as prime husband material, bit back a sigh and forced a quick smile onto her face.
‘Oh, I expect I’ll see him around,’ she agreed peaceably, releasing her arms and walking casually back to the kitchen table.
As usual, the table had a small lace cloth on it that had come down in the family from her namesake, Aunty Gertrude. In the centre was a small vase of Poole pottery (her mother’s pride and joy, bequeathed to her by her own maternal grandmother) with a small bouquet of Sweet Williams in it. Her father grew them religiously in the garden, as both of his ‘girls’, as he referred to his wife and daughter, had a fondness for the scents given off by the carnation family.
‘A dance might be nice,’ she said. It was easier to keep her mother sweet than to argue with her that she was in no hurry to marry and start producing babies. And Brian – who was a local hero due to his prowess with a rugby ball – was a nice enough lad. And a good dancer!
‘Mind you don’t go out to these student places at night, then, my girl,’ her father said, putting his foot down, making his daughter regard him fondly. As if his word was still law, Trudy thought with a slight pang. She wasn’t his little girl any longer. If either DI Jennings or Dr Ryder thought she needed to go out at night, then she would have to!
But Trudy Loveday hadn’t reached the ripe old age of nineteen without learning how to handle her parents.
‘Yes, Dad,’ she said meekly.
She wondered just what she should wear tomorrow. Mentally, she began running through her rather meagre wardrobe. She wasn’t sure she had anything really suitable. After all, Oxford women students were all bluestockings from wealthy backgrounds, and their clothes were, of course, of the best quality. She was pretty sure her Woolworths glad rags wouldn’t fit the bill!
How she wished she had the nerve to ask Dr Ryder if she could buy some more ‘upmarket’ clothes, in order to fit in more easily and be accepted as one of the gang. But she just couldn’t see herself asking him for money for a fancy hat! And the look on DI Jennings’s face if she were to put in an expenses claim for a new outfit was just too comical – and horrific – to even contemplate!
Reginald Porter (Reggie to his family and very few friends) leaned nonchalantly against the wall surrounding the Ashmolean Museum, and glanced casually up and down Beaumont Street. On another hot summer’s day, the place was crowded with shoppers and tourists. Down the way a little, a couple of students were sitting on the steps leading up to the world-famous museum, smoking French cigarettes and talking animatedly about something to do with Oriental art. With a sneer of contempt, Reggie ignored them. What did it matter what the overeducated, overprotected little sods thought?
Two business types in a pair of matching neat, pin-striped, dark-blue suits and bowler hats swept past, discussing the tennis.
‘I tell you, mark my words, the men’s finals will turn out to be an all-Australian affair this year,’ one of them said to his companion, with a shade of bitterness in his Home Counties accent. ‘Wimbledon nowadays seems to belong to them.’
‘Really? Which one do you think will lift the silver then? Rod Laver or Neale Fraser? Not that I really care – I’m more of a cricket man myself. Have you been following the second test against South Africa? Disgraceful, I call it…’
They passed on, their equally banal chatter about meaningless sport wafting past and over him. Instead, Reggie kept his eyes fixed on the progress of his quarry. He’d followed him all the way down the Broad after he’d stepped out of his college gates. Mind you, Reggie mused viciously, it was easy enough to keep track of him, with that head of hair so ostentatiously fair it was almost white, and his swagger telling the world