Mrs Bobbin, afternoon tea, and sawn off shot guns.
By Christopher Mathews
“I don't get why you don't understand
the plan Spike, it really ain’t that difficult, son.
“Just go over it again, please Charlie,
for my sake, please!” Charlie frowned at him, and said in a slow frustrated
voice,
“I ring the doorbell – to distract the
old bag with some blag - you break in at the back, nice n quiet like, and find ‘er
stash - got it?”
“Can't I ring the doorbell, Charlie,
please. Why do I have to do the break in every time. To tell the troof, I've
put on a few pounds since Christmas, and I don't like climbing up drainpipes ‘n
in fru windows no more, it’s my back Charlie see.
“Yeah, but you aint got the brains Spike
old son, you gota sweet talk the old girl, soft like, see, lull her to sleep,
stuff like that needs brains Spike, and you don’t hav em.”
“You're always sayin that, just 'cause
you got O level woodwork, and I aint. Anyway, wouldn't she keep her dosh
stashed in the bank like normal people.”
“The bank!” Charlie gave a hollow laugh.
“I told you before Spike, old ladies like that keep wads of cash under the bed,
or stuffed in the mattress, they don’t trust banks! You just have to remember
not to spill the chamber pot all over you when you go fumbling under her bed.
NDA on your clothes, and you’d be down the nick, soon as. Besides, her old man didn’t
like banks - famous for it - he was!”
“You are clever Charlie, you’ve fought
of everythin.”
“Brains, that’s what a job like this
takes. Anyway Spike, there’ll be loads of jewels, n silver, gold, n stuff somewhere
up there. Then, off down the pub with a bag full of shiny. Micky the Fence
melts it down, and bosh, we are rolling in clover. And the best part, it’s all
untraceable, no prints, no family heirlooms for the Plod to track down. Nufin
to flog down Doggy Frank’s Pawn Shop, nufin, nufin comes back to us see.
The Old Bill can’t pin nufin on us.”
“I fought she was just a sweet little
old lady livin in that big old house on Cable-stich Street.”
“Just goes to show what you know then don’t
it! She's the widow of a textile tycoon, worth millions, and she aint got no
kids to squander all that lovely dosh on niver. It’s all there just for the
pickin. I bet she’s half dotty too. So, by the time the Old Bill arrive, she won’t
tell ‘em nufin.”
“Can’t’ we do over a post office
instead. I don’t like the idea of gaggin and tying up the old dear, what if I
have to… well you know…”
“What?”
“You know, I have to hurt her?”
“Then make it look like an accident - you
know, fell down the basement steps tripping over the cat, all old bag’s got
cats. That reminds me – balaclavas, gloves, and come tooled-up too, got
it!”
“Do we have to Charlie, what do we want
wiv shooters? It’s just one old dear. And another fing, why do we have to do it
in the afternoon, can’t we do it at night, like decent burglars.”
“Never go to a job without adequate insurance
Spike, you know that! Anyway, no one will suspect nufin. Before she knows it,
you will be off with the swag, while I’m still drinking tea wiv the old bag,
then we meet back at your gaff to count the takings.”
“But won’t she give your description to
the Old Bill.”
“I got a false beard and make-up nicked
from the market.”
“I will say it again Charlie, you are
clever, I give you that!”
The two parked up a block away and Spike
sneaked off down a back alleyway.
The ancient doorbell rang somewhere deep
inside the gloomy hallway. The sound of shuffling feet and the slow tap, tap,
tap of a walking stick echoing on the black and white tiles could be heard from
deep inside the house.
“Coming dear,” called an old woman,
followed by some indistinct mumbling. Finally, a croaky old lady’s voice came
through the letterbox.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Inspecta, err, Smith - the gas
safety, err hoficer from, err from British Rail, I mean Gas. Is that Mrs Bobbin
of number one Cable-stich Street.”
“What do you want dear, could you speak
up a little dear, I frightfully def.” Charlie raised his voice a little saying,
“We had reports of gas leaks coming from
your err, water pipes, err plumin, err under your floorboards.” He flashed an
identity card past the letterbox. It looked a lot like a Guinness label. “I’ve
come to inspect your gaff, err property madam.”
“Oh dear that does sound dreadful, you
had better come in. Just a moment please dear.” The sound of keys scraping in
rusty locks, chains being unfastened and bolts being drawn back, then, several
minutes later the door opened a fraction. Somewhere inside the dingy house, a
gramophone was playing Boccherini’s minuet in E major. A warm musty smell like
old cabbage wafted out through the gap in the door which took Charlie back a
little.
The visitor looked down to see a pair of
watery grey eyes looking up at him. They belonged to a little old lady of about
ninety, back bent double, with a lace shawl across her shoulders, fluffy
slippers, lace gloves and an enormous sapphire necklace, which winked
invitingly at Charlie.
She drew the door wide open and said,
“Do mind the step dear. I was just going
to make a pot of tea.” She showed him into a large richly furnished drawing
room. Charlie’s eyes hungrily scanned the room taking an inventory of the
valuables on offer. Mrs Bobbin shuffled off saying,
“Won’t be a moment dear, the kettle has
almost boiled. Do you like hobnobs dear.” Her voice tailed off and Spike could
just hear her mumbling, “I might have some homemade fruit cake left if you…” Charlie sat down clumsily, his sawn-off
shotgun sticking out awkwardly from under his heavy overcoat. A handgun in his back
pocket making him jump up again. He stifled a squeal, but out in the kitchen
the old girl heard nothing as she made the tea.
His quick scan of the room revealed a
nice haul of valuables, antique furniture, paintings and the like, but too
difficult to shift quickly. He would pass the intel onto an associate who
specialises in that stuff. Intel like that is worth a mint down his boozer,
even if it is to just keep the ‘big fish’ like The Pike Brothers off his
case. Never mess with the Pikes!
Mrs Bobbin came shuffling back into the
room carrying a tarnished silver tray, solid silver cutlery and chipped
crockery. The stale fruit cake looked unappetising. Spike, seeing the
silverware, mentally adjusted his estimation of the haul upwards a little.
“The tea tastes funny love.” He said.
“Oh yes, it is camomile tea dear, very
soothing, have another piece of my fruit cake dear.” After ten minutes of small
talk, his head was starting to spin. The room was stiflingly hot. He took a
bite of stale cake, but that too was odd.
The sound of banging could be heard from upstairs.
“I wonder what that was dear,” she said,
beginning to rise.
“It’s probably your pipes banging, err
from the err, the gas leak, err they do that.” He put a heavy hand on her
shoulder and gently pushed her back down.
“Don’t trouble yourself luv, I will go
and inspect. Gas can be dangerous to the untrained,” he added. His head was aching,
and he staggered out of the room and up the stairs calling softly,
Spike, Spike! Keep it down Spike!
From the drawing room, a stifled
argument could be heard upstairs somewhere. The old lady suddenly appeared at
the door of the bedroom with astonishing speed. The two men froze, mid-sentence
in a comical tussle, Spike’s fists were full of jewels. Both were amazed at how
such an old lady could have managed the stairs so quickly. She stared at both
men with an expression which could be accusation or simply confusion. “Finally,”
she said, with a slight smile,
“Perhaps your colleague would like some
tea too.”
“I aint found no gas leak yet neiver
love! Honest love.” Spike blurted out, his face riddled with guilt at being
discovered red handed.
“Play along Spike, I don’t think she
noticed,” Charlie whispered. She led both men downstairs again.
“Stupid old bag!” Spike said under his
breath. Mrs Bobbin insisted that he have some camomile tea and cake too.
“Play along Spike,” Charley muttered again
under his breath. “But shut up and let me do the talking! And say you want the
loo, that will give you a chance to finish the job.” The stale air, her
monotonous hypnotic voice with its endless string of petty irrelevance and the hot
fire seemed to overtake them.
Within ten minutes both men were slumped
fast asleep in armchairs. Mrs Bobbin picked up the old telephone and said,
“They are both fast asleep Mable.” An indistinct
old lady’s voice came from the receiver and Mrs Bobbins replied,
“Several hours I should think dear, I
gave them a very strong dose.” This was followed by more indistinct questions.
“Yes, two sawn-off shot guns, and two revolvers
and plenty of ammo. And yes, their dabs are all over the shooters, and I did wear
gloves.” A muffled cheer could be heard from the telephone and Mable said
something else.
“How else could six old ladies get hold
of guns like that, it was a great plan and it worked! Contact Maureen, Elsie,
Joan and the other members of the Lavender Ladies Mob, we are on
tonight.
The end
Copyright Christopher Mathews – Jan 2026
