Poor Jack Part 1 of a DI Crosier Mystery

By Edwin Tipple

Poor Jack had to cope with his mum every day. He didn’t understand what was happening to her or why she was so stressed. On one tragic day, she thoughtlessly changed all that for him. He would never see her again.

Help for Jack appears quickly, in the form of two lovers from the railway police: the amorous DI Crosier and the ever-willing Sergeant Claire Cardin. They can’t offer Jack a home, but their uneasy solution to Jack’s problem is short lived as further tragedies soon strike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edwin Tipple
• Release date: Aug 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386994206

Book preview

1

Jack Deakin

They’ve just said it again: Poor Jack. The women from the next three houses along to ours stand about on the path gossiping after hanging their washing out in their back yards. The best bit for me is they’ve no idea I can hear every word they say when I’m sat in the outside lav.

I know my mum isn’t rich but why they think I’m poor, I’ve no idea.

She’s not taken in any lodgers since the last one left, says the smoker — she’s the fattest of the three.

Pity, it must help Mary a lot with her housekeeping, replies Edith. It’s the poor boy I feel sorry for.

Um, says the smoker, not sounding quite so sure as Edith. He can be a little bugger at times. They all agree. I have a job not to laugh when they use words like bugger. He’s harmless, though, says the skinny one. I don't mind her.

I don’t like the smoker much: I can smell the smoke from her Players as she blows it in my direction. Her smoke seeps through the gaps in the toilet door. She smokes Players. I know ‘cos I saw a packet of ten fall out of her apron pocket. Then she bent over to pick up some pegs, displaying the tops of her stockings and loads of white leg-flesh. Didn’t see her drawers, though, thank god. I grabbed the fags when she went in. At last, they separate and go back to their mangles.

That’s probably it, though: mum taking in the odd lodger. I’d seen the last woman, Bessie, hand money over every Thursday night after payday. It’s kept in a jar on the mantelpiece, a mixture of pound notes, ten-bob notes and threepenny-bits. Sometimes I’m given the pennies or halfpennies. They’re adding up in my jar next to my bed, so I can’t be that poor. Not had any new money for the last two weeks, though, ‘cos Bessie went to live the other side of town; the half-a-crown side mum calls it. That’s the posh side.

I think a lot when I get in bed before I go to sleep. I think I love my mum, but don’t know if I do. I don’t think I really know what love is. That’s something older people do I’ve heard, well a lot older than me anyway.

And most kids have dads. I don’t. There was a man who lived here when I was about two, I think. I’ve not seen him since. He might have died for all I know. Doubt if I’d know him, even if he walked in now, though to do that he’d have to be still alive of course. I never hear my mum talk about him anyway, so he must be dead. I’m almost eleven and a half now. So that means … it’s been nine years since he walked out of my life. And my mum’s as well.

I don’t know about my mother. Not really. The gossips say she isn’t my real mum. They say she’s not old enough. Not that I know how old my mum is. True, she isn’t exactly old, like some of the women around here. I’ve never dared ask her. I might do one day.

But I know she’s not right. Don’t ask me to explain. I can’t. Maybe I’ll understand when I’m a lot older and have a job or something. Maybe if I pass the eleven-plus exam, I'll go to grammar school and they’ll teach me about love and how people think. Bet they won’t, though.

Are you like me when you first get in bed? You lie there all comfy-like, then after a minute or two, you have to start wriggling about — that’s better, I’m on my side now.

Anyway, I don’t think I’ll pass the entrance exam. I don’t know why it's called that. I’ve never seen the grammar school’s entrance.

Some people say you never really get what you want in life. I’ve heard them say that — the neighbours — and the people who come by to see my mum. They talk all sorts of rubbish. I’ll probably have to do that, too, when I’m older. Daft, though, don’t you think? Growing up, going to school, learning stuff you’ll hardly ever use so that you can talk rubbish when you’re older. Don’t make sense to me.

My mum’s all right when it comes to looking after me. She cooks meals and sings when she cleans the house. She likes Bing Crosby best. I try to do our back garden for her, but I’ve no idea what to grow or when. They don’t teach you useful stuff at junior school. Don’t show you how to cook or grow vegetables. Miss told us, only last week, about the open three-field system, something to do with how they grew crops hundreds of years ago. But what’s the point of knowing that? I need to know how to grow spuds now.

Teachers, they’re more interested in writing proper and adding up and suchlike. We’re doing long division now. It won’t feed me, and I’m no good at it anyway. But I have been able to chant the times-table, though, all the way up to thirteen ever since I was eight — which Bradshaw can’t do. He’s such a dumb bully.

Our house is in a row of two-up and two-downs. It’s all right, but a bit small. Any lodgers have to sleep on the floor in the spare room upstairs. It’s really only a space between the front and back bedroom where I was going to set up a model railway. They have to draw a curtain across when they’re in to stop me from seeing them undress if I suddenly dash upstairs.

The best bit of our place is the long back garden which backs onto the