He came in carrying a wet sack containing shrimps which he passed to her muttering, ‘Soup’, so she lifted the lid from the cauldron containing the vegetables that had been simmering all day on the flame, put her hand in the sack, brought out a handful of quivering shrimps and tossed them into the bubbling liquid.
‘Anybody about?’ she asked, referring to the other shrimpers.
‘Not sin’ this morning,’ he mumbled, starting to strip off his wet coat, jumper and heavy trousers. ‘They’d finished by dinner time.’
‘What about ’Patrington shrimpers?’
‘Some, but they’d finished by midday and by four there was a sea fret coming up.’
‘Good. All the more for you.’ She poured a jug of cold water into the bath and then another, then lifted the steaming kettle and poured that in too. She fetched a thick pad and with it held firmly in two hands lifted the large pan of hot water, muttered, ‘Shift yourself,’ and poured that in as well, taking a small delight when some of it splashed on to his bare arm and made him splutter. Then she turned her back to refill the kettle whilst he took off his long johns and vest and carefully lowered his backside into the bath.
The next morning, when he had again gone out, she dressed in her boots and a heavy coat, let out the poultry, milked the goats and fed the pigs, and then, first glancing over her shoulder towards the gate, she opened the barn door and peered inside. Everything appeared to be in place; the wheelbarrow hadn’t been shifted, spades and forks were hanging on the wall and the straw bedding was stacked as usual, as were the hay-racks and the animal feed.
Yet there was something different, and her sharp eyes narrowed as she stepped inside.
A rully, the flat four-wheeled cart they had inherited from the previous owners, was usually up-ended and leaning on the barn wall but now had all four wheels on the ground and various boxes, crates and sacks piled on it.
‘Deakin’s allus grubbing about in here,’ she muttered. ‘He’s been in and out for weeks.’ She pondered, debating. He kept things in here that she wasn’t supposed to know about: wooden crates and old trunks had lobster baskets and trawl nets, sacks of potatoes and heavy objects piled on top of them, making it difficult for anyone to move; but he didn’t know her strength and she had soon discovered his cache of spirits and boxes of tea, although when she looked again after a week or so everything had gone.
But something else was going on these days, for he went out for longer periods during the day and night time, and she was convinced that now he wasn’t fishing only for shrimp or small batches of tea and spirits, but for something more lucrative.
‘I’ll not look today,’ she mumbled. ‘He said he’d be back by dinner time and he might catch me. But I’ll find out, that I will. He’s doing a big run and he’ll think that Customs won’t suspect him in his shrimp boat. The big fellows use their steamboats to avoid capture; but I heard talk down in the village that baccy tax has gone sky high and he’d want to benefit from that.’ She sniggered. ‘Thinks he’s clever, don’t he, but he’ll not keep owt from me.’
Carefully she fastened the barn door and with a sly grin she went back into the house where he would expect to find her on his return.
CHAPTER FORTY
They were now at the beginning of March and the pantomime was in its final week. It had been an exceptionally long season but extremely successful; the leading lady, aware that Delia had a better singing voice than she had, had asked the management if her substitute might continue until the finale and Delia had been glad of it. But her contract had expired and she was once more running out of time to find a new booking. She had made enquiries at other theatres but there were no vacancies, and fashion shops who were advertising for assistants wanted staff with experience.
One morning she called in at the theatre to ask Mr Rogers what his next show would be. He had talked of putting on another production after the pantomime, but nothing had been said since the run of Cinderella had been extended, and she doubted there would be a role for her even if his plans had not changed.
He was sitting at his office desk with his head in his hands when he looked up, startled, as she knocked gently on his door.
He got to his feet, ever the gentleman. ‘Come in, come in, Miss Delamour.’
‘Are you unwell, Mr Rogers?’ she asked, for he was ashen-faced and his usual ruddy complexion had quite lost its glow. ‘If so I can come back later.’ She would have been quite pleased to put off the question she was about to ask.
‘No, no, just tired and a little under the weather, you know.
And …’ He heaved a big sigh. ‘There’s always some issue to complicate the daily grind of theatre management.’
She didn’t know what the issue might be, but nodded politely. ‘I don’t feel well, as a matter of fact,’ he confessed suddenly, without any pretext of hiding his anxieties. ‘This has been a very long show, and although successful you of all people must be aware there have been some trials during its run. Frankly, I’m ready for some time off,’ he shuffled papers around his desk, ‘but no chance of that, I’m afraid.’
Delia nodded again, sympathetically.
He sat down again and motioned her to take a seat. ‘My under-manager has handed in his notice,’ he
