25. THE PARK KEEPER'S SINS

A questionable park keeper and a party invitation.

“Do you fancy coming for a walk?” asked Maureen when Inspector McGivven had driven off in a blacker mood than when he had arrived.

“Where?” asked Wallace, uncertainly.

“Oh, we could go to the park,” she smiled at him, “maybe sit on a swing or go zooming round on a roundabout! But I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

They walked along in silence for a while, then Maureen took Wallace by one hand. It was a sort of intuitive move, one that signified everything and nothing, and he let her without wondering why. The truth is, she had known him since the day of his birth and treasured the way she felt about the baby who was now a teenage boy. So the simple intimacy of holding hands was more a connection with the past than a suggestion for the future.

“What was it you want to talk about?” he asked as they made their way through the park gates and sauntered towards the play area.

“You know I’m going to be twenty-one soon?” she asked.

He nodded. “And I’ll be sixteen,” he said, thoughtfully. “I’ll be a working man with a wage and I’ll be able to help mum out as well as buy some decent togs for myself!”

“What’s wrong with what you’re wearing now?” she asked.

“My old school trousers and a plain white shirt? Nothing, I suppose, but there are some really good clothes about for folks these days. You must know that because you don’t half look good!”

She did, too. She was wearing a salmon pink dress with a fitted boddice, slender waist and flared skirt and for the first time ever Wallace noticed her appearance with something that was considerably more than an acknowledgement that she was actually dressed in something. For the first time he couldn’t help looking upon her as an attractive woman, and if that sounded strange bearing in mind he must have been in the full flush of his testosterone years, we must bear in mind that she had been his playmate during his childhood.

“I don’t care what you wear,” she said, “but thanks for liking my dress!” And she spun round once as if she was in a dance hall jiving to one of the latest beats, making the skirt flair out and laughing.

“Fancy a dance?” she said.

“That’s enough of that sort of thing!” roared a voice from the park-keeper’s hut. Neither of them had noticed that the hut, which was usually locked and empty, for once was occupied.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Wallace.

“The girl behaving like that: that’s what the matter is, showing us everything she’s got in that … American way!”

“Really, grandpa,” said Maureen in the sort of flirtatious voice that excited Wallace, “I didn’t know anyone of your age cared about a lady and her legs any more.”

The man stalked out towards them, his face ruddy and his bulbous nose accompanied by the reek of alcohol on his breath and stale tobacco everywhere else on his person, suggesting that he had been doing more than potting the plants inside his shed.

“It’s an outrage these days!” he roared, “girls as young as you behaving like tarts! Now be off with you! Get off this park, and stay away, or I’ll get the cops onto you!”

“Why?” she asked innocently, “What have we done wrong?”

“It’s for kids, that’s what it’s for, not floozies like you with their teddy boy playmates!” he roared.

“Come on, Maureen, let’s find somewhere else to talk,” said Wallace, pulling the hand she was holding gently away and edging towards the direction they’d just walked.

“Just a moment. Look who he’s got there!” Maureen was suddenly insistent and she strode past the park keeper towards his hut.

“Hey, you keep out of there!” roared the incensed man, and he rushed towards her, stumbled and fell flat on his face, squashing the aforementioned bulbous nose against a tuft of grass.

“Who have we here?” demanded Maureen, and she pushed the shed door open.

A pale figure appeared in its doorway, a man apparently in his middle years, and nothing would have seemed awry to either of the younger people had his trousers not slipped down when he rushed towards the prostrate park keeper, wanting to help him back onto his feet.

“Now what have you two been up to in there?” asked Maureen, whilst Wallace was at a loss to understand what was going on.

“It’s nowt to do with you!” snapped the irate park keeper once he had found his feet again, “I said off with you, and I meant it!”

“We were only enjoying a little pick-me-up,” protested the older man, “he’s my mate, is Clive here, and as it’s a hot day we were just enjoying a nip of something to cool us down...”

“And pull your trousers down,” said Maureen, a hard edge to her voice. “It is illegal, you know, men doing that sort of thing with each other. You can end up in jail, and that means you’ll lose your job and your friend will end up in jail with you.”

“We weren’t doing anything of the sort!” protested Clive Smith, the park keeper who could see a huge and probably insurmountable problem looming in front of him to destroy his future.

“I can’t help it if a button’s come off,” growled the other man, “it’s nothing to do with anything we weren’t doing, and that’s a fact, and you can’t prove that it was.”

“Then maybe you’ll leave me and my cousin in peace, because we’ve got something important to say to each other,” Maureen told him. “We weren’t going to do anything to harm anyone, and if you two weren’t either then fair’s fair and you can get back to your … bottles … and we’ll get on with our private conversation.”

“But we weren’t,” growled the park keeper, “we just weren’t, were we Don?”

The other shook his head vigorously. “Anyway, I must get home to my misses,” he said, emphasising the last word meaningfully.

“Then you do that. Come on, Wallace,” said Maureen, and she led him towards the swings and sat on one of them. The park keeper was about to yell that those swings were meant for the local kids, but thought better of it and vanished into his hut, locking the door behind him, whilst his loose-trousered friend hurried across the park and to the main entrance.

“Perverts,” growled Maureen.

“What’s so important that you want to talk to me about it?” asked Wallace.

“That business of the dead girl in the cellar,” she said, slowly, “why were you there, Wallace? I heard she was using it as some kind of disgusting brothel.”

Wallace had no idea what a brothel was but didn’t like to expose his ignorance. “It was Innocent and my fallout shelter,” he said seriously, “we planned to hide in it when the bombs start falling, Maureen, and I always wanted you to join us, for safety and because… we’re … we’re friends.”

He didn’t know why he said that, but he did and suddenly, to him, it made sense.

“That’s all right then,” she smiled at him, “and next week I’m twenty-one and get the key of the door! Will you come to my party? There’ll be dancing!”

© Peter Rogerson 30.06.19