Tiger Men Read Free

boy didn’t appear too dismayed at being caught playing truant.
    ‘I haven’t been able to go to school, Mr Stanford. I’ve had the grippe something awful this past week.’ He gave a pathetic cough to emphasise the fact, then before any further discussion could take place he charged for the open front door. ‘I’ll tell Ma you’re here,’ he called as he disappeared, and the shriek of ‘Ma! Mr Stanford’s here!’ echoed back out into the lane.
    Silas looked down at the urchin still squatting in the dust. ‘You should be in school too,’ he said.
    The urchin grinned back with a cheeky arrogance. His dad was a fish-hawker and his mum was a washerwoman: they didn’t need handouts from the HTBPS do-gooders.
    ‘Hullo, Mr Stanford.’ Polly Jordan was at the front door in an instant. ‘How nice to see you; do come in.’ She smiled a welcome that was meant to be winsome, but her once-pretty face was weathered well beyond her twenty-nine years, and two missing front teeth did nothing to help, although they gave her a girlish lisp, which was strangely coquettish.
    ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Jordan. Thank you.’
    She stood to one side and he edged his way past, trying not to make contact, but she was so hugely with child it was difficult to avoid her altogether as he clutched his top hat to his chest. She seemed to have grown to twice the size in the month since he’d last seen her. He wished she would take more pains to cover her condition; the cotton dress, which was designed to hang loosely, clung to her distended belly in a most distracting fashion. He wondered whether he might suggest Amy bring a smock with her when she next visited the household, although perhaps that would be insensitive.
    ‘Sit down, Mr Stanford, do.’ Polly indicated the mothy armchair, which had clearly been her husband’s and which dominated the tiny room, then she plonked herself heavily onto the small hardback chair that sat beside the rickety table where upturned packing cases formed the remainder of the family’s seating arrangements. A little girl of around four was perched on one, solemnly watching the proceedings, and an eighteen-month-old infant lay sleeping in a cradle, also assembled from the wood of packing cases. There was no sign of Charlie, who’d ducked out the back door into the rear of the neighbouring house, and was currently making his way through to the front lane to resume his game of marbles.
    ‘Go outside and play, Sal,’ Polly said. ‘Mr Stanford and me want to have a chat.’ The child stood. ‘And shut the door after you, there’s a love.’
    The little girl crossed the room silently, her eyes never leaving Silas. She peered back at him as she closed the door. When she’d gone, Polly, in an automatic gesture reached out a hand and rocked the cradle.
    ‘Do sit, Mr Stanford, please do,’ she insisted.
    But Silas remained hesitant. ‘Perhaps under the circumstances you might be more comfortable . . .?’ He indicated the armchair.
    Polly gave a guffaw of laughter as if he’d made a fine joke. ‘Oh Lord no, Mr Stanford. God bless you, I’d never get up, not with this barrel of lard.’ She embraced her giant belly with both hands in a gesture Silas found extraordinarily vulgar, then returned to rocking the cradle.
    ‘Very well.’ He sat. As Polly Jordan was not in the least concerned by her appearance, he ignored his own self-consciousness and spoke with a greater severity than he normally would to a woman in her delicate condition. ‘I am most displeased to see that Charlie is not at school,’ he said, resting his top hat on his knees.
    ‘Yes, poor boy, he’s had the grippe something awful.’
    ‘I have checked the attendance records, Mrs Jordan.’ Silas periodically ran a check on the school attendance of those youngsters whose families were receiving benefits from the society. After all, if the society was paying rent and supplying fresh rations, there was no justification for young children to