Martha Grimes - The Blue Last

When there was time in the Moonraker, Benny would sit on the library ladder and read David Copperfield, his favorite book. It was because David was worse off than Benny that he liked it. Benny felt lucky there was no Mr. Murdstone in his own life to make him miserable. Of course, the other side of that was there was no Peggotty to help Benny over a misery, so maybe life evened itself out pretty much, the same terms for him and for David.

But it still made him sit there thinking, his chin in his cupped hand, elbow on knee, for long periods. Was it better to have no enemies, even if it meant no friends, or have both? This was not an easy question. Anyway, he really couldn’t say he had no friends for there were the people he lived with, and the people he delivered to, who were very friendly toward Benny and Sparky. As for his employers, it was only Mr. Siptick and Mr. Gyp who could stand in for Mr. Murdstone. Mr. Siptick was forever going on about the things he did wrong and Mr. Gyp was always asking pointed questions about Benny’s mum (his dad being dead, which was true) and ending up with asking “You sure you got a mum, Benny Keegan?” -he’d ask with his wheezing kind of laughter- “or should I go call the Social?”

This froze Benny’s insides, not only for himself, but also for Sparky. And Sparky even took a couple of steps backward when Mr. Gyp mentioned the Social. But for all the icy fear that replaced the blood running through his veins, Benny was canny enough to keep his expression noncommittal when he answered, “Well, you could do, but when they came to the house to take me away, Mum, she’d be pretty mad and I wouldn’t work here no more. Anymore,” he’d corrected himself. A lot of reading in the Moonraker had vastly improved his speech. The thing was, Mr. Siptick and Mr. Gyp, neither of them wanted to lose Benny, for Benny worked for much less-and did a better job-than anyone else they could have found.

This morning Mr. Siptick, wearing his same old green jacket with his name, SIPTICK, on the pocket, rolled up a copy of Gardener’s World and handed it to Benny. “Just you mind that mutt don’t slobber all over it.” Mr. Siptick said this every day.

“His name’s Sparky and did anyone ever complain about slobbering?”

Benny also answered this way every day. Sparky could carry two papers at once, since Benny put them in a thin, brown bag to make it easier for him to keep them together.

Mr. Siptick waved a dismissive hand and settled down on his stool to count his money out for the day. “Well, go on, go on!”

“You forgot the Toblerone for old Mrs Ely.”

“For pity’s sake, boy, just pick one up, candy’s right in front of you!”

Benny took a Toblerone from one of the candy boxes lined up on a rack. “Okay, I’m off.”

Mr. Siptick made no answer.

On Monday morning, which this was, his usual deliveries were one, Daily Telegraph to the butcher, Mr. Gyp; two, sausages and racing form to Brian Ely; three, Telegraph, Times and Guardian to the boys at Delphinium (Benny thought they used all these papers to cut flowers over); four, Times to the Moonraker; and five, if Miss Penforwarden was sending books along, Benny’s favorite stop was a big house called Tynedale Lodge.

It was convenient to go next to the butcher’s for that way he could pick up the sausages for Brian Ely when he dropped off Mr. Gyp’s paper. Sparky always knew when they were going to Mr. Gyp’s for he seemed to droop. Sparky was some kind of terrier, Sealyham, maybe. Sparky looked just like Snowy, the white dog in Tin-Tin, with his oblong white-tufted face. Neither of them could stand Mr. Gyp. In his usual sharp-tongued way, he started complaining about lateness when Benny and Sparky were hardly in the door.

“I can’t help it if Mr. Siptick makes me late.”

“You just mind your tongue, Master Keegan. And that there dog, too. I don’t want him gettin’ his teeth into these sausages for the Elys.”

As if Sparky didn’t know better. Benny handed Sparky two more papers he’d been carrying under his arm, and he himself carried the sausage. He said the same thing and got the same reply.

“Well, I’m off.”

Nothing.

Brian Ely was a stocky man with a head like a bullet, which was close to his shoulders, so that he seemed to be perpetually shrugging. He wore loud suits with wide lapels.

“Ah! Sausages! Have these for our tea, we will. Paper’s here, Mum!” he shouted back over his shoulder. Benny couldn’t decipher the tremulous reply. He wondered why old Mrs. Ely didn’t die. She always seemed in the process, what with her lack of breath and always having to hang on to things-chair backs, stair rails, coatracks, people-to keep herself upright. She was worn down to nothing but a bag of bones. It was a wonder.

Brian Ely exclaimed over the racing form as if he didn’t get it nearly every morning. “The form! Good lad. He took the brown bag from Sparky’s mouth, removed the racing form. He shook it open. “What d’you like in the ninth at Doncaster?” He looked down at Sparky, who seemed to be thinking it over.

“See you, Mr. Ely. Oh, and here’s your mum’s Toblerone.” He handed that over and then raised his voice. “’Bye, Mrs. Ely!” he shouted. He wished he’d just gone ahead and left, for now he saw Mrs. Ely making her breathless way toward them from the rear parlor.

“C’m on, Ma, no need to exert yourself.”

There was a wooden rod all along the wall of the hallway, attached there just so old Mrs. Ely could hold herself up. “Just… wan’… pa…” she said, or tried to. The rest was lost in her gathering in enough breath even to get that across. She stopped, holding on with both hands and breathed asthmatically. Her face was bloodless, but that appeared to be its natural color. Benny wondered if she would drop dead there and then, but he supposed not, as she’d done this many times before. She was always falling down, too.

Brian Ely just shook his head and heaved a sigh as he refolded the racing form. He went a few paces down the hall to where his mum was gasping for breath, handed her the racing form and she then turned to make her breathless way back.

“Got no patience, has Mum. No, she’s got to have that form first thing and don’t even like me reading it first.”

Benny asked, “Why don’t I bring two, then? You could each have your own copy.”

Brian Ely laughed. “Oh, I thought of that. But she’d just think I was hiding something. Ever so suspicious. Well, she’s a good old mum fer all that. I’ll say it if I must-she can really pick ’em. Would ’ave made a good tout, she would.”

After the door closed on them, Benny just stood there until Sparky gave him a nudge. They both trotted on to the Moonraker.

It was four steps down, each step bearing a gold-painted moon in its different phases. Sybil Penforwarden had hired a painter to do that. Inside the walls were brownish-red brick. On two sides of the room were arched openings, forming what looked like four separate chambers filled with shelves of books.

The bell rasped at the opening of the door and brought Miss Penforwarden from the shadows of the back shelves into the shadows of the front ones. Benny looked around, then called, “ Morning, Miss Penforwarden.” The little shop was ill lit, but that was one of the reasons Benny liked it. There were dim wall sconces against the brick and an old metal shade hung from the ceiling, throwing a swooning kind of yellow light over the books. This light made his eyelids heavy. He always thought there was something stranded about the shop, something alien and other-worldly. Maybe it was just the name.

Miss Penforwarden came out from the rear of the shop, cheerful as ever. “Benny, I’m so glad you came round this morning. I’m getting up a parcel of books to go to the Lodge. Can you take them?”