The Runaways by Victor Canning Page A

tomato from the tray, bit into it, and said, ‘ Cold snack, today. Milly’s away shopping. I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon so, with your permission, boy –’ She gave him a smile which suddenly took all the sternness out of her face. ‘I’ll victual up while I take your particulars. Name?’
    In the barn the day before Smiler had gone over in his mind – when he had decided he must go for a job – the answers to all the awkward questions he knew he would be asked, and he had his replies ready.
    â€˜Pickering,’ he said without hesitation. ‘Johnny Pickering.’
    Mrs Lakey wrote it down, and said, ‘Age?’
    â€˜Fifteen and a half.’
    â€˜Address?’
    â€˜I live with my aunt, Mrs Brown, at Hillside Bungalow, Crockerton. My mother and father … Well, they’re dead. They was killed in a car accident three years ago.’
    â€˜Sorry to hear it. Damn cars. They’re just murder on the roads. Horse and trap – you got a tumble and a bruising and that was that. Never mind. Times move. Can’t alter that. Any previous job? References?’
    â€˜No, Ma’am – I mean Mrs Lakey. I left school Christmas.’
    â€˜Any experience with animals?’
    â€˜No, Mrs Lakey. But I like ’ em. And I had a dog once.’
    â€˜Willing?’ Mrs Lakey raised the glass of stout to her lips and watched him over the top as she drank.
    Puzzled, Smiler said, ‘I don’t really know what you –’ Then understanding dawning, he went on quickly, ‘Oh, yes, I’m willing to take the job. I’d like it.’
    â€˜No, boy. I mean are you willing to work hard? Sober, industrious, clean and tidy? Always cheerful and no clock watching? Can’t have you if you’re not all that – and cheerful. Milly hates a gloomy face around the place. Likes boys that whistle and sing and look like the whole day is just one glorious top of the morning to you. And you’ve got to have a good appetite. Milly can’t bear cooking for those who pick and scratch and don’t enjoy their victuals. So what do you say?’
    A little out of his depth, Smiler said, ‘I think so, Mrs Lakey.’
    â€˜Good.’ Mrs Lakey finished her stout. ‘You seem a likely number to me. Anyway, the advertisement’s been in for two weeks and you’re the first. Wages – seven pounds a week. Free lunch. Sundays off. Half days to be arranged as work permits. Start at seven-thirty. Finish at five this time of the year. Later, as the sun god stays with us longer. Twenty-five pence an hour overtime. Working overalls provided. Anything in that frighten you?’
    â€˜No, Mrs Lakey.’
    â€˜Well, it would most of the young lay-abouts these days who want a four-hour day, meals off golden plates, two months’ paid holiday a year, and then wonder why the country’s going to the dogs. Which is the biggest slander on dogs ever uttered. And talking of dogs, let me tell you, my bark is not worse than my bite. My bite is terrible!’ She winked at him suddenly.
    Smiler, who, it must be confessed, was a bit confused and uncertain about her was warmed by the wink. He said, smiling – and Smiler’s smile, Sister Ethel had always said, could charm the birds from the trees – ‘You seem very nice to me, Mrs Lakey.’
    Mrs Lakey looked at him, slowly grinned and then cried heartily, smacking her thigh, ‘ Well now, it’s a compliment I’m getting! The first for ten years. Right now, run along with you.
    Let yourself out. Be here at half-seven tomorrow and we’ll see how you shape up.’
    â€˜Yes, thank you, Mrs Lakey. I’ll do my best.’
    â€˜You’d better. No less is accepted.’
    Smiler let himself out and was chased all the way down the drive by the Jack Russell snapping at his back wheel. But Smiler didn’t mind.
    Going down the valley road to