The Bee's Kiss by Barbara Cleverly Page B

stayed his step and this was undoubtedly where the thickest crowd was congregating. A sympathetic crowd, judging by the absence of heckling and the trickle of applause when the man paused for breath, they were responding, as was Joe, to his starveling good looks, his white skin blue-traceried below the surface with ancient coal dust scars and stretched over bones which seemed about to break through the thin confines of flesh at chin and wrist.
    Not to be wondered at, Joe thought with a rush of pity, when the man’s pay had been reduced by a quarter and his working week extended by ten hours. A fine reward the working man had been offered for four years of sacrifice.
    ‘Here, duck, ’ave a sixpence for a sandwich and a cup of tea,’ said a matronly figure. ‘You’ll feel better with summat ’ot in yer belly.’
    The miner accepted the gift with grace and the surprising flash of a smile.
    ‘Not a penny off the pay!’ he shouted, encouraged.
    ‘Not a minute on the day!’ they responded, with music hall timing.
    ‘Don’t give ’em owt for nowt!’ growled an East Ender in heavy mimicry of the Yorkshireman’s accent.
    ‘Silly buggers,’ commented Armitage. ‘We’ll see if they still think the same when their milk supplies aren’t getting through.’
    No discernible trouble yet though. No pit-bulls with their owners in tow. Probably still in the pub. No sign of a lady policeman either. In her dark blue serge, Mathilda would have been very obvious amongst the women who, it seemed, had decided that enough was enough – winter was finally over and they were welcoming the spring. Cotton dresses had appeared in honour of the bright April sunshine, though shoulders were still prudently covered by cardigans and even shawls.
    Further on they dodged an ear-splitting harangue from a member of the fascist movement. He was shouting and gesticulating in an effort to outdo the man next door, a communist, judging by the red sash he wore around his chest. Joe noticed that Armitage’s step had slowed perceptibly as they passed the Bolshevik and he thought he might have lost the sergeant to the entertainment had they not been on a mission. Spotting a couple of uniformed bobbies patrolling, arms behind their backs, Armitage showed his warrant card and consulted them. He reported to Joe that they understood the women police to have been diverted to the Serpentine area. ‘Sunny day like this, the nippers are likely to go a bit mad and get themselves into trouble diving into the water.’
    Keeping each other in sight, Joe and Armitage made their way through the crowds until, emerging on the other side, both men stopped to take a deep breath and stare at the open green spaces about them.
    ‘The lungs of London, they call them, sir,’ said Armitage with something very like the modest pride of ownership. ‘And what with Kensington Palace on one side and Buckingham Palace on the other, London’s lucky to have it still. You’d have thought it would have been pinched for the palaces long ago.’
    ‘Don’t think they haven’t tried!’ said Joe. ‘George the Second’s wife – Caroline, I think she was? – once had the nerve to ask the Prime Minister what it would cost to enclose the whole of the three big London parks for the exclusive use of the Court. Wise old Walpole replied, “Madam, it would cost you three crowns: those of England, Ireland and Scotland.” She didn’t pursue the idea.’
    Armitage grinned, enjoying hearing the old story repeated.
    ‘There’s the Serpentine.’ Joe pointed to the gleam of the lake ahead of them, glimpsed through the thickening trees. Stately elms and groves of silver birch sported fresh green foliage as yet undarkened by soot. Joe suddenly grasped Armitage’s arm and pointed. ‘Look, Bill, do you see it? There!’
    Armitage was puzzled.
    ‘A wood-wren!’ said Joe. ‘I’ll swear that was a wood-wren.’
    ‘Looked like a sparrer to me, sir,’ said Armitage