Wartime Wife Read Free

you, there is only a small amount of cash.’
    ‘Fifty pounds.’
    The solicitor nodded. ‘Times have changed. There’s a lot of competition in the pawnbroking business nowadays. I’ve heard of people doing business from their front parlours.’
    ‘Not proper shops?’ Michael sounded surprised.
    ‘No. Not really legal either.’
    ‘I will make the shop better profitable.’
    ‘
More
profitable,’ Crombie corrected.
    Michael flushed at his slip in grammar. ‘That is right.’
    ‘I have the keys here.’ He reached into a desk drawer and brought out a bundle of keys. ‘Thomas Routledge, the caretaker I placed in your uncle’s shop following his demise, is still in situ. Morose would be the best word to describe him. Would you like me to come with you in case he takes to being surly?’
    ‘I can manage,’ said Michael, rising to his feet at the same time as taking the bunch of keys from Mr Crombie’s hand.
    The two men shook hands. ‘It won’t be easy for you, especially seeing as you’ve never ran a business before.’
    ‘I will learn.’
    ‘I’m reminded of an old saying that there’s no sentiment in business. I’m afraid your uncle did not adhere to those words. He had a soft heart.’
    Michael blinked but said no more. He didn’t want to say that his heart was dead or that ruthlessness could easily override sentiment if survival was involved. He didn’t want to mention anything about his flight from Germany – nothing, nothing at all. At least, not yet: the memories were too painful.
    The solicitor stayed behind his desk watching as Michael ducked beneath an overhead beam before gaining the door. It occurred to him that Michael had not smiled even once: a grim man for one so young.
    Three brass balls hung above the shop door. Wooden shutters hid the windows and the door was firmly shut, the paintwork faded and peeling like burned skin.
    Shielding his eyes from the bright September sunlight, Michael took a step back into the road and regarded his inheritance: at least one room on the ground floor, plus the shop, perhaps two above that and perhaps one or two attic rooms at the very top.
    There was no sign of the caretaker, so he took it upon himself to enter. The key grated in the lock. An overhead bell jangled as he pushed the door open into a small porch enclosed by wire screens. Another bell hung beside a hatch arrangement. The notice above the hatch said that in the interests of privacy, only two people at any one time would be dealt with. The rest must wait outside.
    He wasn’t sure whether this was more to do with security than privacy.
    No one came in answer to the bell. He looked around for a door into the rest of the premises but could see nothing. The wire screens finished about two feet from the ceiling, blocking his view. Taking hold as far up the screen as he could, he laced his fingers into the holes, placed one foot on the polished counter, and heaved himself up and over.
    He found himself surrounded by glass-fronted cupboards filled with all manner of china, cameras, scientific and navigation instruments, musical instruments and, in barred and locked cupboards, an assortment of guns, sabres and assegais. Labels sprouted from brown paper parcels heaped along theshelving at the back. There were also drawers marked ‘gold’, ‘silver’, ‘wedding’ and ‘engagement’. A pile of ledgers sat in a corner on the counter.
    He’d expected to see the caretaker, but no one appeared.
    The living room at the back of the shop was exactly how he’d imagined it would be. Sepia photographs of family ancestors in stiff poses hung from the walls. The paintwork was dark, the wallpaper from the previous century unbearably ornate and furry beneath his fingertips. A chenille pelmet hung from the high mantelpiece and a tea caddy made to celebrate the diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria sat next to a black onyx clock.
    There was a kitchen beyond the living room where a teapot and two cups and saucers