12
THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER DRIVING SAMMY TO school, Jake sought out Ruthy at the dress shop. But she had not come in to work. Her eldest boy, David, had a temperature of 103.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, opening the door to Jake. “I had hoped it was the doctor. I should have known better.”
“Why?”
Ruthy explained that she had absolutely refused to bundle up David and take him to Dr. Engel’s surgery. She had threatened Engel with a letter of complaint to the National Health Service if he refused to come to the house, and now she was terrified because she knew he would not call for hours, and that when he did finally show up he would be horrid. He was, she said, such a foul-tempered man any way. Almost as bad as Dr. West. When David had only been a baby, running a temperature of 102 and vomiting, Dr. West had grudgingly come to her flat to look at him. “You’re fussing,” he had said, “fussing. He’s teething, that’s all.” But twenty-four hours later, with David’s temperature still rising, she had bundled him up and taken him to the hospital, where they discovered he had bronchial pneumonia and put him in an oxygen tent.
So Ruthy had demanded her cards back and gone to register with Dr. Engel. Owl-faced Engel, dribbling cigarette ash, had flicked through the cards, piles of letters from the hospital, and other records, and then said: “You know there’s only one kind of patient who comes to me with a record like this.”
“And what kind is that, doctor?”
The neurotic.
“As if,” Ruthy protested to Jake, “the NHS comes to us free. We’re taxed plenty. If Engel doesn’t like being on the NHS, why doesn’t he emigrate?”
“And what about you,” Jake asked, “have you ever considered it?”
“Certainly not,” she replied, affronted. “Harry says you’re going to pay me back what your cousin stole from me. Is that true?”
“I’ve brought you a check.”
“Would you care for tea?”
“Oh, thanks. Yes. Ruthy, if you’re really that worried about your son, why don’t you let me call my doctor. I’m sure he’d come immediately.”
“All you have to do is snap your fingers. It must be nice,” she mused, “to live your style. With connections everywhere.”
“Do you want me to call him or not?”
“Sure, call him. My David is as good as any of yours.”
“Where’s the phone, then?”
“The second floor maid is using it. You’ve got six pence?”
“Yes.”
“It’s in the hall.”
O’Brien agreed to look in within an hour. Jake followed Ruthy into the kitchen, where he was astonished to see, as she opened a cupboard in search of tea bags, shelf upon shelf of tins, tins of every conceivable size and shape, all of them shorn of their labels.
“What’s going on here?” Jake asked.
“Oh,” she giggled, “I’m a competitor from the competitors. Didn’t you know?”
Ruthy led him to her “office,” the bridge table in the corner of the living room, which was stacked with neatly ordered labels from soups, sardines, soft drinks, biscuits, chocolate bars, crisps, and so forth. There were scissors, paste, envelopes, and entry forms. There was this week’s News of the World Spot the Ball contest, £5,000 for the outright winner, the competitor who, scrutinizing the action photograph of a football game, made his X exactly where the missing ball was in play. Alongside lay entry forms for the Heinz Golden Opportunity contest, the Opals/Spangles competition, Brooke Bond Name-the-Chimp contest, the Daily Sketch Jackpot, Topcat Win a “Woman” Dream Kitchen, the Great Tetley Treasure Island contest and the £1,000 Pepsi Personality Analysis competition, as well as Horlick’s Secret Dream and the Wall’s Name-the-Soup contest.
“Would you save your labels for me?” Ruthy asked.
“Well, yes. But which ones?”
“Any with a contest. You don’t drink Beefeater’s Gin, do you?”
“I could.”
“Ooo, they’re giving away a Triumph sports car. Would you bring me the labels?”
“Yes. Certainly. But have you ever won anything, Ruthy?”
“You think I’m a dummy. So does my brother. Sure, I’ve won plenty.”
The bridge table. A stainless steel carving set. A dinner service. A carton of Heinz soup. Seven days at Butlin’s Holiday Camp. And many, many more prizes.
“I also once won fifty pounds in the pools. So, you think Harry would make a good dad for my boys?”
“He’s a rather complex man, Ruthy, isn’t he?”
The boys needed a dad. David, her eldest, was too moody and sensitive for exams; he had failed his 11-plus and had to go to a secondary modern school. Sidney, her youngest, still sucked his thumb. Nothing helped. Not tying his arm, not coating his thumb with hot mustard. But her nephew was a boarder at Carmel College, the Jewish public school in Wallingford. “Not bad for a father who was brought up on the Commercial Road and never got any further than the Jewish Free School.” On the High Holidays, she said, her brother’s family stayed at the Green Park Hotel in Bournemouth. “Have you ever seen it? It’s beautiful. Fantastic. It’s just like Versailles.”
“Have you been there, then?”
“Are you kidding? Me? ‘let them eat cake.’ Do you know who said that?”
David called and Ruthy excused herself. Their voices were raised. Ruthy spoke sharply. David began to sob, then she slammed the door. “He wants to get out of bed. But your doctor’s coming; I’d look like a fool.”
“What’s his temperature now?”
“Only ninety-nine,” she admitted glumly.
O’Brien swept in, examined the boy, and emerged from the bedroom to say, “Mild case of tonsillitis. He should have them out, you know.”
“Don’t you think I’m on a waiting list? It’s four months already I’m waiting. Maybe, doctor, with your connections …”
“Please,” Jake said, “Dr. O’Brien is a very busy man.”
“You’re all busy men,” Ruthy said, seeing O’Brien to the door. Then she picked up Jake’s check and scrutinized it again. “Assuming it’s good,” she said, giggling, “I’ve got Harry to thank for this. He’s such a brilliant man, but he’s disappointed in himself. If he wasn’t Jewish, with his ability, he’d be very rich today.”
“Being Jewish didn’t stop Charles Clore.”
“It’s this country, you know. It’s the class system. Harry’s got the wrong accent. There’s no old boys’ network to take care of him. If he came from Canada, like you, where quality doesn’t count, he’d be very important. His background wouldn’t be held against him.”
“Maybe Harry’s trouble is self-pity?”
“You think Prince Charles could get into Mensa?”
“He doesn’t need to.”
“You said it,” she replied triumphantly.
“All right, then, why not emigrate with Harry? Maybe your kids would have a better chance in Canada?”
“You think I haven’t looked into it? Just listen to this, will you?” She read from the application form. “Have you or has any one of the persons included in this application ever been convicted of, or admit to having committed, any crime or offence?’ That takes care of Harry, doesn’t it?”
Ruthy opened a dresser drawer and produced a Xerox of the ten-year-old News of the World clipping.
HITCHCOCK FILM IDEA
BEHIND BID TO KILL
STARLET
A 25-year-old bookkeeper, inspired by a Hitchcock film, conceived the idea of trying to kill a starlet he had developed a passion for by fiddling with the brakes of her Triumph sports car.
The 24-year-old actress, Carol Lane, who has appeared in Doctor in the House, The Long Arm, and other films, managed to change into lower gear and stop the car, said Mr. Godfrey Hale, prosecuting.
And what might have been a tragedy was averted, he added.
The man in the dock, Harry Stein, of Winchester Road, NW3, pleaded not guilty to attempting to murder Miss Lane, who lives in St. John’s Wood Road, nearby.
Mr. Hale said this was a pathetic case.
As far as was known, he had never actually met Miss Lane but he had developed a passion for her.
For weeks he had tormented her with obscene phone calls, culminating in a call that stated if he couldn’t enjoy her body, nobody else would.
On the evening of May 10, Miss Lane parked her car outside her flat in St. John’s Wood Road.
Next morning she drove off in the usual way. On Finchley Road she realized there was something wrong with her brakes. After stopping the car, she called the AA.
When the vehicle was examined the AA inspector came to the conclusion that the braking system had been deliberately interfered with …
“He got two years,” Ruthy said, “and she went on to bigger and better parts. Only Harry’s going to re-open the case now. We’re going to clear his name.”
“Wouldn’t it cost a good deal to appeal the case now?”
“It’s not Cyril’s money; it’s mine,” she protested petulantly. “My darling brother convinced my late husband I was a dummy, so my legacy is being held in trust. Harry’s read the will. It’s full of loopholes, he says. We’re going to contest it.”
Poor Cyril.
“Oh, one thing, Ruthy. Now that I’ve settled my cousin’s debt, as it were, I would like to have his riding clothes. And the saddle, if I may?”
“Good riddance,” she said, going to fetch them.
As Jake entered the house, the saddle slung over his shoulder, riding crop in hand, Nancy clapped her hands, “Look, children, it isn’t Daddy. It’s Ben Cartwright.”
“Ha, ha.”
Only then did he notice the packed bag on the hall floor. He froze.
“Don’t panic. The contractions are still fairly mild and far apart. But a child can come quickly.”
Pilar saw them into the car, sniffling, and Jake drove off with extreme caution. He told her he had given Ruthy the seven hundred pounds.
“I don’t understand why you even bother with them,” Nancy said.
“Well, we don’t stand in queues. And my cousin did take her for a ride, you know.”
“Harry gives me the shivers.”
“Harry’s a street accident and I just happen to be a witness. What should I do, flee without handing in my name?”
“Don’t be sharp with me, please.”
“I can’t stand this enforced idleness any more.”
“Look for a film, then. If you find one you want to do, forfeit the balance of the money.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said, relieved. “You’re right.”