My name is not Mary

 A Case of Domestic Pilfering is a Holmesian romp set in high summer. Come, warm yourself on memories of hot streets ...

Madeleine had been stooping, picking at the flattened granules of something ground into the carpet.  Now she straightened, red in the face, and sat back on her heels for a moment until a movement at the door made her jump.

'Only me!'

Madeleine turned away.  'So I see.  How come you always turn up when the work's half finished?'

'It was John.  He kept me to help with – to help him shift something.'  The older girl moved across the room slowly, humming.

'Well, you took your time.  I've already cleaned over there, by the way.'

'So you have.  Good little worker, ain't you Mary?  Shall I do over here then?'   

My name is not Mary, protested Madeleine silently. 'No need.  It's all done, Sarah.'

'Well, lemme carry that then.  Oh by the way –  ain't it your half day today?  Don't feel like swapping with me by any chance?  I got some things I want to do.'

'No, I don't.  I've got things to do as well.'

'Oh come on, Mary!  What things?'  Sarah sat down on the piano stool; the lid was up, and she ran a finger along the keys.

'Shush that!  They'll hear you!' 

'Not them.  They didn't get in till light.  I heard 'em.'

'Couldn't sleep, eh?'

Sarah ignored the dig.  'You're mean, you are, Mary,' she said in complaining tones. 'You get much more fun than me, living out like you do.  It's work, work, work here, all day long.'

'I work.  Or hadn't you noticed?'  And my name is not Mary.

'Well, I'd have thought you could do me just one tiny favour...'

'I'm always doing you favours.'  Madeleine made toward the door.  'I've got things to do,' she repeated over her shoulder.

'Must be love, then!' laughed Sarah as she slid from the piano stool.

Madeleine stood still for a moment.  'No,' she said firmly; 'No, it's not love.'

They crossed the hall in silence, and disappeared down the back stairs.

Later, she threaded her way through the crowd.  It was hot, and although she'd washed her face and hands before leaving Mr Clements' house she felt dirty and sticky.  The pavements burned through the soles of her shoes, and the smell of people, horses and hot tar invaded her nose.  At last she decided to blow some wages on an omnibus, rummaging in her purse to find the requisite coppers.

Home at last, tired and flushed, feeling the hair cling damply to her forehead, she ascended the three steps and opened the door.  Immediately the smell of cabbage puffed at her, accompanied by its auditory equivalent: Mr Morgan's voice lessons wafting down the stairwell.  She hurried into the back room she shared with her mother, pulling at the ribbons of her bonnet.

Her mother was in bed, a great heap under the covers, snoring.  The yellow blinds trapped the air; the room smelled of sweat and unwashed linen.  Madeleine wrinkled her nose, withdrawing quietly.  She went downstairs to the basement where her younger brother Michael was reading at the kitchen table.

'Is that tea?'  She sat down opposite him as he refilled the cup at his elbow and pushed it towards her.  

'What you reading, Mikey?'

He held up the book.  'The Terrible Fate of Lady Melrose,' she read aloud.  'That's the same one you were reading last week!'

'Yeah.  It's got some good bits in it.  This Lady gets kidnapped by a gang of roughs - here, look -'

Madeleine read curiously.  'That's rude'.  She pushed the book away, blushing involuntarily.

Michael was grinning.  'I don't mind.'

'Don't suppose you do.  Anyway, no-one talks like that in real life.'  She swept some biscuit crumbs aside.

'It's books, innit?  Anyway, I'll be getting a new one tomorrow because – look.'  He slid something into his palm and made a fist.  'Which one?'

'That one.'  He opened his hand.

'Well well,' she said softly.  'You have been earning your keep now, haven't you?'  She looked at him.  'Anything else?'

'No.  Straightforward, this one. Never seen him before –  new to it, by the looks of him.'

Madeleine nodded.  'It's the regulars who turn out more interesting from my point of view.'

'And mine.  Did your Frog go for those papers?'

'Difficult to tell, but he was interested all right. Enough to make your gent worth another squeeze.'

'I'll squeeze him all right.  They're pathetic, that sort – dead scared, but keep coming back for more.  Must be my charm.'  Michael smiled pleasantly.  'The price'll go up this time, though.  We could do some serious business – tell your Frog that.  By the by, what about your gent?  Any chance there?'

'Mr Clements?  Too risky.   Anyway, he's catered for.  Got a nice friend staying with him now.'

'One of us?'  Michael leaned forward, interested.

'Nah.  He sticks to his own.'

Michael sat in silence for a while; Madeleine watched him.  He met her eyes.

'Mads - d'you think I should buy something for Ma with this?'  Suddenly he looked very young.

'She never notices!  Don't know why you bother.'

'Don't be hard on her, Mads.  She can't help it.'

'I'm sick of hearing that.'  Madeleine spoke coldly.  'She has it easy compared to you.  And me.'

'She's had a deal of trouble …'

'We've all got trouble.  Don't get soft on me, Mikey.  You won't last if you're soft.'

'I think I know that better than you,' said Michael quietly.  'Don't be angry, Mads.'  

There was a pause.  'When you seeing him, then?  Your Frog?'

'Dunno. Tonight, maybe. Or maybe not. I'm tired.'  She rubbed her eyes and passed a hand through her dirty yellow hair.  'No, tonight. I could do with a run. It helps.'

'I know,' said Michael.   

Upstairs Mrs Peterson reached a crescendo of snores, and on the floor above, Mr Morgan's pupil trilled on top G, cracked, and gamely tried again.  'Bravo!' came his voice, drifting faintly down the stairs; 'Bravo!'