Kenneth Cameron - The Frightened Man

They toyed with the glasses, sipped — neither wanted the ale — tried to make the time pass. Janet Striker said, ‘Don’t jump at its being the Satterlees.’

‘I know, I know. We have to be dead certain. I want to be certain, that’s the trouble — it’s tempting to jump ahead.’

‘Don’t jump.’

He studied her face, saw its intelligence, its hardness, wondered if he could ever get past that. She looked at him, looked away, then back; their eyes joined and held. It was disturbing: long, shared looks were supposed to be examples of intimacy, thus with her were embarrassing. He knew he was getting red, face warm; she looked cool and detached. He wanted to say something, to do something like touch her hand, but he didn’t dare.

‘Now then,’ a big voice bellowed next to him, ‘who wants to see me?’ He was a wide, solid man, shorter than Denton, confident and even brassy. Ex-military, Denton thought; he put on more assurance than he felt and said, ‘My name’s Denton.’ Taking the chance, he added, ‘Exsergeant, infantry. Sit down, will you?’

He was holding out his hand; the other man took it, gripped it hard. ‘Penrose, gunner. Like calls to like, eh?’ He let go. ‘Can’t sit down, no time.’ Then, to Mrs Striker, ‘Evening to you, ma’am.’

‘Janet Striker,’ she said, holding her own hand out. He touched it but turned back to Denton; men were for business, he seemed to say. ‘What’s up, then?’

‘We’re trying to locate a family named Satterlee.’

Penrose tipped his head back as if to have a better look at Denton. ‘This the personal or the historical?’

‘Little of both, I expect. We were told they used to live here.’

‘In aid of what?’

‘An enquiry.’

‘You got do better than that, ex-sergeant. American, are you? What army?’

‘Union. Our Civil War.’

‘Oh, that one. Saw a lot of it, did you? Yes, I think you did. I was lucky — thirteen years in South Africa, I never got so much as a stone thrown at me. All right, ex-sergeant, tell it to me straight what you want — I’ve a lot of thirsty people waiting.’

Denton looked at Janet Striker, saw her nod, said, ‘A girl is dead. We think she might be a Satterlee.’

‘The little one or the big one?’

Janet Striker jumped in. ‘There were two? Only two, or more?’

Penrose drew a chair from another table and sat, opening his attention to include her. ‘You’re not the police,’ he said. ‘Not that it’d matter if you were; we’re clean here. There were two girls, Alice, the bigger one, and a younger one named — now let me think — Eadie — that’s what they called her, but it wasn’t Edith — Edna. Edna! Alice and Edna.’ He leaned a forearm on the table. ‘They didn’t live in the pub itself; I and the missus live upstairs and always have. The Satterlees lived in the extension next door — other people in there now. When they put these buildings up, they build on the extension for the company’s business — works manager, engineer, whatever it is — and then it becomes the sales office when the houses are ready to sell. When all the houses are sold, they rent it out.’

‘Satterlee was the works manager?’

‘Nothing quite so fancy. More like the work gangs’ foreman. ’

There was a silence. Denton, fearing the man would run off, said quickly, ‘What were they like?’

‘Weren’t like nothing, because you never saw them. I saw the girls now and then in the back, playing out there, but him only when he wanted me to. And her, never. See, they kept to themselves and shut the rest of us out — curtains always closed, never going about or chatting like normal folk, wouldn’t hardly open the door to the postman’s knock. My missus said we ought to extend the hand of neighbourliness; I said they could go to the hot place, pardon me, miss. I mean, here we was, two families marooned in the only building in the middle of a bleeding metropolitan desert, and they wouldn’t offer to share a cup of cold tea!’

Janet Striker leaned forward. ‘What were the girls like?’

‘Pathetic. Not out of want, I don’t mean pathetic that way, but off to themselves all the time and lonely. You could tell. Like they was dying for company, for conversation. Nice enough girls, mind.’

‘Did you ever hear them talk about Stella Minter?’

Penrose stared at her. ‘ That’s an odd one. That’s right odd, I mean it.’

‘Why?’

‘How could you know about that?’ He looked at them with sudden suspicion, as if they had revealed some incriminating secret — a tail, or an odour of brimstone. Then he thought better of it. ‘It was a game they played, the two sisters. It was sort of a tea party or something — all in dumb show, mind, except for the odd old cup or a rock they’d picked up. But I’d look down from our window — I’d have put my feet up for a bit — and, there they’d be out in the garden, except there wasn’t no garden then, jabbering to each other and playing at pouring tea — I got that much — and other stuff I couldn’t tell, like talking to people that wasn’t there, and so on. I went down one day, I had something to fix on our back door, and the little one sees me and she says — they was always eager to talk — she says, “We’re playing cellar-minto.” Or that’s what I thought she said. Made no sense, but I thought it was some word they’d made up; I don’t know kids’ games. Then later, another day, she said it again and I got it as stellar-minto. Stellar-minto, all right, makes no sense to me either, but so what? Now here you come along and say it again, I haven’t heard it in, what? — four years. And it all comes right back. What’s it mean, then?’

‘It’s a girl’s name — Stella Minter.’

He looked at her, frowned. ‘What’s that mean, then — we’re playing Stella Minter? Playing at somebody else? Making fun?’

‘More like being somebody else.’

Penrose went on frowning, then shook his head; he put his hands on the table as if to push himself up, and Denton hurried to say, ‘What sort of man was Satterlee?’

Penrose grunted, a single scornful sound. ‘Harold Satterlee was the sort you don’t want hanging about. Full of himself. Drove his workmen like billy-o; that’s why the company hired him, I suppose. I had one run-in with him, that was all I needed to see of him.’

‘What happened?’

‘Look, mate, I’ve really got to go. I’ll make this quick.’ But it was clear that Penrose liked the chance to tell the story. ‘Satterlee comes to me and says he wants me to refuse to sell beer to his men in the middle of the day — says it slows them down in the p.m. I said that was bleeding nonsense and I wouldn’t do it. He says if I don’t do it, he’ll go to the company and close me down. Well, I laughed in his face! I said to him, see here, my man, they didn’t build this pub first because they liked the look of it, you know; they built it so the workmen can grab a pint! You go and tell the company to shut it down, and they’ll shut you down. You’ll be out on the street, not me. Well, he knew I was right, but he got mad as a wet hen. Swore terrible, put his face in mine, said he was going to pound me. So I showed him my friend in need — ’ Penrose pulled only the handle of a leather-covered truncheon from his trouser pocket — ‘and said I’d have him level on the ground before he could swing a fist. Well, he knew I’d do it, so he stomps off bellowing and never spoke to me again. Nor could his kids after that — they’d look away if they saw me. I felt that sorry for them. The bigger one, Alice, she could have been pretty, but she had a hard time of it. And a hard time since, I’d wager.’