The Scarecrow by Ronald Hugh Morrieson

wince remembering Prudence slipping her priceless new nylons off again with Mr Dabney back in the kitchen. The alcoholic mortician had just been coaxed into getting on the form between the table and the window and he practically had to be held down. He made some fearful insinuations, which Ma, who was up and down all the time, missed, thank heaven; but Prudence could not have been so dumb and suddenly she fixed him with the levellest look imaginable. A dead silence all around went with the look. Then she and Angela went back to semi-flirting with Len Ramsbottom, the heart-throb of the force.
    Charlie Dabney was a person it was difficult to imagine really disliking, but for a moment or two he looked at his most unlovable.
    Uncle Athol was looking around slyly and sharply and if ever I saw a scamp who was not missing a trick, it was right at that moment.
    Pop had three or four tilts at his cup of tea and said, ‘Good luck’ two or three times and then varied it with ‘Regards’. The last toss, Mr Dabney rallied and said ‘Bon Sonte’. Ma ignored them and talked to Len Ramsbottom as if he had brought news from Granny Cudby, God bless her.
    ‘We keep open house, Mr Ramsbottom, open house. We’re not rich people, but we’re honest. As yuh know now, eh? It’s Prudence’s birthday tomorrow and no one would be more welcome than yuhself. She’s going out to service next week, Mr Ramsbottom, with the nicest people, the Quins, not really service, but looking after things in general. She’s been a good girl at school and I would’ve liked office work for her, but it’s so hard to give them a course up at the Tec. Yuh ought to teach her how to type, officer—I mean Mr Ramsbottom.’
    I had privately consigned Len Ramsbottom to the pigeonhole ‘lousiest typist ever’ and I hid my sour smile by stirring my tea again, but Prudence said, ‘Oh beauty! Willyuh, Mr Ramsbottom? Willyuh honest, teach me how to type?’
    The cop leered at her rosily and waved both hands, including the finger he typed with.
    ‘Course, course,’ he gurgled. ‘Course, Miss Poindexter.’
    She goggled at him. ‘Cop that, Ma. Hey! I’m Prudence.’
    I missed a bit of the by-play about now because I went out to the washhouse to try and work out how big a hash of things I had made and just how much ‘grata’ I had gleaned to give Les. The only conclusion I came to was that I was too tired to think.
    Mr Dabney had produced another bottle by the time I got back and Pop and he were having a ‘regards, regards’ session. Uncle Athol was keeping as aloof as he could, consistent with getting his glass filled up as regular as clockwork. Ma was beingso ultra-hospitable to Len Ramsbottom that Pop and Co. had taken it as the green light and the bottle was slap in the middle of the table.
    ‘Regards,’ said Mr Dabney. ‘Great Scott, the lights won’t go out all night.’
    ‘Regards,’ said Pop. ‘Anytime, Charlie, old boy. Always welcome. Come any time at tall . Only too pleased. Always on deck. Old Southern hospitality and what have you. Demned poor show if the boys can’t compare notes once in a while, what, what. Thank you, thank you, no water, Athol. It’s made with water heh, heh, regards. Yes of course. First to agree, old man. And how’s business? One thing with you, Charlie, customer can’t argue back, eh! eh! Heh, heh. Wazzat, wazzat?’
    ‘Stiffasaboard. All my clients. Stiffasaboard. Stiff-as-a-board. S-t-i-f-f, yes, yes. Regards old boy. Great gal you got there. Dee-aitch. Great gal. Can yuh hear me, m’dear? Stiffasaboard. Regards, Dee-aitch. Great Scott, she wouldn’t do a thing like that in front of me unless realiesh who Charlie Dabney was, eh! eh! Fatal fascination. Always had it. Too fond of the liquor. No regrets. Know a lotta little tricks. Got a pound y’know. Got a pound. Not stuck for a pound, ole boy.’
    ‘All businessmen together, Charlie. Tight little town. Tight little town to get a pound in. Lucky to be where we