Jane said.
The woman shook her head as she looked down at her groceries and the ruined carrier bag.
‘Oh my God, you bleedin’ well ran into me – now what am I gonna do?’ she exclaimed in a strong Cockney accent.
Apologizing profusely, and feeling somewhat embarrassed, Jane surreptitiously took her police hat out of the plastic bag and stuffed it in her handbag. She bent down and started picking up the groceries, placing them inside the empty bag.
‘I’ll get me brolly.’ The woman stepped off the pavement without looking.
‘Mind the traffic!’ Jane called out anxiously and stood up.
She gently grabbed the woman by the arm before instinctively holding her hand up to stop the traffic and retrieving the umbrella herself.
‘Is it still working?’ the woman demanded.
‘There’s no damage,’ Jane said, opening and closing the umbrella to check the spokes. ‘Here, you use it so you don’t get soaked.’
It took a while for Jane to pick up the potatoes as they, along with the now bruised apples, had rolled into the gutter. Her hands were soon cold and muddy, and she had to wipe her face which was wet from the torrential rain.
Holding up her umbrella the woman gestured impatiently.
‘Just put the cans of soup in, never mind the vegetables . . . Oh, don’t tell me, the bread’s split open as well.’
‘I’m really very sorry. I’ll pay for everything that’s damaged.’
Far from being disgruntled, the woman gave a wan smile.
‘No need. Besides, all this new decimal stuff confuses me. It was much easier when everything was in shillin’s.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t want to see you go short.’
‘Don’t look so worried, luv. I do office cleaning and the bread was only to make a sandwich for work.’
Eager to be on her way, Jane stepped a few paces back and, clutching her now wet and bulging handbag, wondered what state her police hat would be in.
‘I have to go – I am so sorry.’
The woman suddenly started gasping and heaving for breath.
‘Are you all right?’ Jane asked with concern.
‘No, gimme a minute . . . it’s . . . me asthma.’
‘Do you live nearby?’
‘Ashburn House.’
‘That’s off Homerton Road on the Pembridge Estate, isn’t it?’
The woman nodded and took more deep breaths. ‘It’s the shock . . . you runnin’ into me.’
‘Long way to walk, you sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Let me . . . get me . . . breath back first.’
‘I’ll help you home.’
The Pembridge was a notorious council estate built in the 1930s. Jane had been to it a few times on incident calls. It consisted of eight five-storey blocks of grimy brick and contained a thousand flats. The residents were of different ethnic backgrounds, but predominantly white. Families of six lived in two-bedroom flats. Drug dealing, fights, vandalism and graffiti were part of daily life, and the stairwells served as urinals for drunks.
Jane carried the groceries over one arm as the woman leaned heavily on the other, constantly stopping to catch her breath. By the time they had walked up to the third floor of Ashburn House and along the landing leading to Flat 44, the woman was breathing so heavily that Jane thought she was going to faint.
On entering the flat she helped the woman out of her mac and gave it a couple of swishes outside to get rid of some of the water before hanging it over the folded wheelchair that was leaning against the wall in the hallway. Jane asked where the kitchen was. The woman pointed to the room on the right.
‘You go and sit down and rest and I’ll pop these groceries in the kitchen for you,’ Jane told her with a warm smile.
‘Would you be a luv and make me a cuppa tea with milk and three sugars?’
‘No problem,’ Jane said, although she was desperate to get a move on as she was already late for work. She hooked her handbag over the wheelchair.
Entering the kitchen Jane was surprised by the amount of expensive modern equipment. In one corner there was a Hotpoint front-load washing machine with a matching tumbler-drier on top of it. Next to that stood a dishwasher and an upright fridge with a separate freezer compartment. The room itself was spotlessly clean with a Formica-topped table and four matching chairs to one side.
Having filled the kettle Jane put it on the gas cooker which, like the other appliances, looked fairly new. She got the teapot, sugar, cup and saucer from the cupboards, then took the milk from the fridge and placed everything on the kitchen table. She noticed that there was a council rent book in the name of Mrs Irene Bentley on the table. Under it there was a Green Shield Stamps Gift Collection catalogue, along with some other magazines. Jane picked up the gift catalogue and flicking through it saw that it was filled with the latest kitchen appliances, televisions, entertainment systems, sports goods and clothes. It struck Jane that it would take more than a few Green Shield Stamps books to purchase any of the electrical goods on offer.
The sudden whistling of the kettle made her jump. Replacing the catalogue she noticed that there was a brochure for Wolf power tools, and another for Hilti power tools, which made her suspect that the woman’s family were in the building trade.
‘Oh ta, luv, just what I need after me ordeal . . . a nice cup of Rosie.’ The woman was lying down on the large sofa and she sat up as Jane handed her the tea.
‘You’re looking a lot better, Irene.’
The woman laughed and a drop of tea dribbled from her mouth. ‘Cor blimey, I haven’t been called that in years. Been known as Renee ever since I was a nipper.’
‘Sorry, I saw your rent book and just assumed.’
‘Did you now? Bit nosy of yer, and never assume, luv, always ask.’ She slurped at her tea.
The lounge was modern and comfortably furnished. The thick fitted carpet was a maroon colour with swirling yellow rings, and there was a wing chair that matched the sofa. Against the wall on one side of the room there was a large teak storage cabinet, and a matching dining table and four chairs.
‘You have a very nice flat.’
‘Me boys look after me.’
Jane heard the front door being opened, then slammed shut, followed by a few seconds’ silence and then the sound of heavy footsteps.
‘Ma? Eh, Ma? Where you at?’ a man’s voice bellowed. Jane turned and saw a tough-looking dark-haired man in his thirties swaggering towards the living room with his hands deep in the pockets of his black donkey jacket.
