Sister's Trio Squad

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said who are you?'

Margaret collected herself. 'Miss O'Maxwell, Miss Margaret O'Maxwell, and who, Sir, are you?' At the calm, precise yet lilting tone he removed his hat.

'Mr Vannin. Mr. Lewis Vannin.'

'Should I know you?'

'I own this house, Miss O'Maxwell. I'm the Landlord. Is Mrs Milligan in?'

'No. No, she's not. Understanding was beginning to dawn on her as to why Aunt Maura had stayed out so long and an unpleasant suspicion had begun to form in her mind. "Then I'll wait.'"

As he clasped his hands behind his back with his feet, in highly polished boots, planted firmly apart, Mr. Vannin was the epitome of stern disapproval. In fact he reminded her of Father Maguire when confronting a way ward parishioner. Out of the corner of her eye Margaret saw the curtains of number sixteen twitch.

Then you'd better come in, Mr Vannin, we can't have you standing on the doorstep of your own house, now can we? Mrs Milligan shouldn't be long, she's been gone hours. Was she expecting you, then?'

Very likely." And likely that's why she's stayed out, Margaret thought. Have you called before?" she asked as she ushered him in.

'No, but my Collector has and he can never get an answer." Oh, she'd have a few choice words to say to her aunt

when she finally showed her face, that she would! Nancy wasn't the only one with an explosive temper. I'm afraid you will have to wait in the kitchen, the

parlour is empty, except for an old table.' Margaret was acutely embarrassed. A gentleman of his obvious standing would have been shown into a clean and decently furnished parlour at home, not a shabby kitchen. I've had complaints, from some of my other tenants,

Mr Vannin said, coolly. 'I'm sure you have. I'd complain, too, living next door to this! She flung out her hands, expressively, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with suppressed anger.

Mr Vannin remained standing, but he did let her take his hat.

'Are you related to Mrs Milligan?" Unfortunately, yes. She's my aunt. My mother's sis

ter. My two sisters and I are staying with her - for the moment,' she added, wondering if their presence was a breach of any tenancy agreement. To forestall any awk ward questions, she turned and faced him squarely. How much does she owe you, Mr Vannin, and how long has it been owing?' From the inside pocket of his jacket the landlord took

out a small notebook and opened it. Four weeks' rent. At seven and sixpence a week, that's "Thirty shillings,' Margaret rapped out. She wasn't having him think she was an ignoramus straight from the bogs.

'You have a quick brain, Miss O'Maxwell.' 'I work with figures and books." 'Indeed?'

She opened her bag and took out her purse. 'I can pay you a pound off the arrears now, and I'll make sure that you get the rest of the money by the end of next week.' She held out the coins and he took them. 'And how do I know that you won't all have "flitted"

by then?" Her cheeks felt as though they were on fire and her eyes blazed. Oh, just wait until she got her hands on those two. 'You have my word on it and I never break a promise! Never! I will bring the money so you won't have the inconvenience of having to come here again. If you will just give me the address of your home or office?"

There was something about her manner and the con viction in her voice that made him believe her. She was an attractive young woman, too, and she looked so incongruous in that small, dingy room in her neat, grey two-piece and white blouse with the cameo brooch at the neck. Added to which, she was very obviously

furious. He noted the light copper hair, coiled tidily but becomingly on the top of her head. He had also noticed the small, black felt hat on the table beside the black gloves and handbag. They were not expensive, but they were decent. She was clearly a cut above her relations who caused him so much trouble. She looked totally out of place, but he had to admire her spirit.

'Very well, Miss O'Maxwell. I live at number three, Walton Park, or you can drop the money into my office. I have a haulage business, my yard and office is on the corner of Parkinson Road. I'm there most days, when I don't have to go out collecting the rents my employee finds it impossible to recover!'

'You've made your point, Mr Vannin. It won't happen again, you have my word on that, too, not as long as I live here!' She handed him back his hat and walked towards the door. 'And do you intend to stay here long?'

'I don't know. That depends on circumstances." As Margaret opened the front door, it was of small comfort that Lisa had washed down all the paintwork, polished up the knocker and whitened the step. 'T've given my word, you'll have your money by the end of next week. Good day to you.

Lewis Vannin raised his hat politely before turning away and she shut the door quickly and leaned against it. Oh, the humiliation ... the utter degradation! In future she'd make sure that either she or Nancy went with Uncle Bart to collect his 'Panel' money, so that half of it wouldn't be missing by the time he got home and the rent would get paid. Now she'd have to make sure she got a job and quickly, they'd all have to, for they had almost no money left. She'd go over to Dunlop's now and when she got back she'd deal with Aunt Maura and Uncle Bart!

Lisa had walked the length of Bold Street mingling with the smartly-dressed men and women, noting how many cars - many of them with chauffeurs - were parked at the kerbside. This was a far cry from the Main Guard and O'Leary's and her courage was beginning to fail. She tried to think how Nancy would approach the situation. Nancy would exude confidence, she wouldn't hesitate at all. She would march straight through the doors and demand to see the Manager or Manageress as the case might be. She wouldn't be standing like a half-wit outside number seventy-six, Bold Street, staring miserably at the plain blind with 'De Jong et Cie Modes Parisiennes' printed on it, that obscured the view inside.

Lisa turned away and walked towards the Church Street end past Orchard's, Sloan's and the wrought-iron façade of Cripps Son & Company. She had almost reached the bottom of the street and panic was overtaking her. 'Now just you take a grip of yourself, Lisa O'Maxwell, and don't be such an eejit!' she scolded herself. That's what Nancy would say. You want a career and you haven't come all this way to end up working in Woolworths.' She felt a little better, a little braver, as she caught sight of herself in the window of a large establishment that declared 'Gladys Drinkwater' to be the proprietress. Lisa was wearing the same outfit she'd worn to Mass on their last Sunday in Clonmel and although the cut and cloth of her coat was far inferior to that of the outfits in the window, she drew comfort and courage that she didn't look too dowdy and that her black gloves - part of her farewell gift from Mrs O'Leary - were of fine, soft leather.

She took a deep breath. She had to start somewhere and it might as well be here. She stepped forward and the door was magically opened for her by a liveried doorman. May I be of assistance, Madam?'

"Thank you, could you direct me to Drinkwater's office, please?' .. to Miss 'It's on the second floor, up the central staircase and to

the right.'

She thanked him and walked in the direction he had

pointed out. Her feet sank into the deep pile of the carpet and as she ascended the staircase her knees felt weak. She had noticed the coolness in his voice as soon as she had spoken. She passed tasteful displays of evening bags, long evening gloves, plumed and jewelled hair ornaments in glass cases. She stopped to admire an evening gown of ice-blue, crystal satin decorated with pearls and bugle beads. She'd never seen anything so exquisite and she dreaded to even think how much it cost. From the corner of her eye she could see a sales assistant bearing down on her and she had to stop herself from turning and racing for the stairs. As the girl spoke she made a desperate attempt to stay calm.

'Is there anything I can show you, Madam?" 'Only the way to Miss Drinkwater's office, if please.' you

The girl looked taken aback. 'Is Miss Drinkwater expecting you?' 'Yes!' she lied, feeling sick, aware that every item of

clothing she wore was being noted and assessed for cut

and cost.

'Would you follow me, please? Who shall I say it is? I don't think I've seen you before, if you don't mind me saying so.'

'Miss O'Maxwell,' she answered, hoping the girl hadn't noticed the tremor in her voice. A middle-aged woman, swathed in furs, was being attended to by two assistants both older than either herself or the girl she was following. So engrossed were they that they didn't even turn in her direction.

The girl rapped smartly on a panelled door and on hearing the response from within, opened it. 'A Miss O'Maxwell to see you, Miss Drinkwater. She assures me she has an appointment.'

Lisa had no time to think just how easy it had been to gain access to the woman who obviously dressed the wealthy of Liverpool, and had done so for many years.

She found herself in a small room, lined with shelves that held Manilla folders, swatches of materials, ribbons and braids. Behind the desk in the middle of it all sat Miss Drinkwater, a thin woman in a plain black dress with crisp white collar and cuffs, a pince-nez perched at the end of her long, aquiline nose. Lisa's courage deserted her entirely. She began to clench and unclench her hands. She shifted her weight from her right foot to her left and then plucked at the ruffles of her blouse.