Читать книгу Flaming Sussex - Ian Sansom - Страница 14

WITH MY FINAL FEW COINS I made my phone calls and adjourned to a pie and mash shop off Sclater Street, whose sole recommendation was that it claimed to offer the cheapest cup of tea on the market. Under other less trying circumstances, I might well have adjourned to one of my favourite East End eating establishments, Bloom’s on Aldgate, or Ostwind’s, with its bakery in the basement, or Strongwaters, or Silberstein’s: a man could eat like a king in the restaurants around the Lane, while snacking on latkes and herring in between.

But I had rather lost my appetite.

The first call I made was to Willy Mann, a restaurateur and an associate of the infamous Mr Klein, an East End businessman in the loosest and broadest sense – which is to say, a crook – who had offered me work on a number of occasions since my return from Spain, work I had so far declined, on the basis it was beneath my dignity and against all my principles.

Mr Klein had wide-ranging business interests – in property, retail, wholesale, in precious metals and pharmaceuticals, the import and export thereof – none of which enterprises particularly appealed, and several of which were both highly illegal and extremely dangerous, but which, crucially, did not involve endlessly sharpening the pencils of the country’s leading autodidact, and which would, significantly, mean that I didn’t need to travel the length and breadth of the country in order to make a meagre living, and could safely remain in London without fear of threat or retribution from people like the Limehouse chap and the many and various others whom I had foolishly offended. Out of the frying pan and into the fire – a desperate bid for freedom.

The second call was to Miriam.

I’d intended simply to let Miriam know that I wouldn’t be joining her for our planned trip to Sussex, but she had somehow commandeered and then entirely redirected the conversation, letting me know that she needed to talk to me urgently, immediately and face to face. Which is how I had ended up, with Willy Mann, discussing the possible terms and conditions of working for Mr Klein, when Miriam arrived.

As always, one was instantly struck by her sheer raving beauty, her languorousness, her confidence and her charm. She had, as always, the appearance of someone who had recently raised herself to commanding heights from a position of reclining elegance – possibly reading Proust, or the Picture Post, with liquid refreshments, a handsome chauffeur and a strokable Pekinese all conveniently at hand. She certainly did not look like she belonged in an East End pie and mash shop, and she made no attempt to look like she belonged. She looked entirely – I think the phrase is – à la mode, in the most extraordinary red and white checked wool coat with fur shoulder detailing and a thick rolled red and white belt, over a creamy white crepe dress, and what appeared to me to be a hunting cap set with a monkey paw brooch. To say that she stood out against the white-tiled walls of the pie and mash shop and its many mirrors reflecting the dark, huddled masses inside and out, would be an understatement. She looked like a visiting dignitary, or indeed an ambassador not merely from another country but from an entirely other world.

‘Miriam,’ I said, getting up from the table. ‘You’re looking—’

‘Sensational, Sefton?’ she said.

‘That’s exactly what I was going to say.’

‘Good.’ She flashed me a smile.

‘Miss Morley,’ said Willy Mann, getting up and extending his hand.

‘Have we met?’ asked Miriam.

‘In Essex, miss.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Miriam. ‘Never mind.’ She settled herself at our table. ‘One of your regular haunts, Sefton?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Would you like … some pie and mash?’ Even the question seemed absurd.

‘It’s a little early in the day for me for pie and mash, thank you, Sefton.’ She stared at our mugs of stewed tea, and at Willy Mann’s plate of half-eaten burned brown pastry, grey minced mutton, creamy mashed potato and pool of thin green parsley sauce – and shuddered. ‘Though thinking about it, any time is a little early in the day for pie and mash.’

‘Can I get you anything, miss?’ asked the café owner, who’d appeared at our table on Miriam’s arrival, rightly anticipating that this was a customer who might expect a rather more attentive than average standard of service.

Before saying anything, Miriam looked up at the man, slowly and appraisingly. For a moment I thought she might actually finger his rather stained apron. He was a dark-skinned gentleman, extraordinarily handsome – perhaps from Ceylon – who spoke the most perfectly accented East End English. I was reminded of the old Jewish joke about the Chinese waiter in one of the East End’s many kosher restaurants who spoke perfect Yiddish. ‘Don’t tell him,’ the restaurant’s owner begged his customers, ‘he thinks he’s learning English!’

‘A cup of coffee would be wonderful,’ she said, after another moment’s pause. ‘If you can manage it.’ She had him, as they say, in the palm of her hand. The café owner flushed and became flustered.

‘I could do you tea, miss,’ he said apologetically.

‘Do you know, tea would be almost as equally wonderful, thank you,’ she said.

‘Are you sure we can’t tempt you, Miriam?’ I said, gesturing towards Willy’s pie and mash.

‘Quite sure, thank you.’

The café owner departed, doubtless to brew some fresh tea for Miriam, rather than serving the swill that he was happy to dish out to the rest of us.

‘So,’ said Miriam. ‘Here we are.’

‘Indeed,’ said Willy Mann, pushing around some mashed potato on his plate. ‘Here we are.’

I’d told Miriam that I’d be free to meet her at one o’clock. It was now midday: for the first and last time during our long relationship, she was early. This was awkward. I’d hoped to have concluded my business with Willy before having to deal with Miriam. As it was, we were all now going to have to deal with each other.

While I stared out the window, still scanning the street for the Limehouse chap, Willy and Miriam eyed each other up. Or at least, Willy eyed Miriam up, and Miriam allowed herself to be eyed: this was one of her techniques. So many men found her alluring, she seemed to have found the best way to deal with them was to allow them their admiration – and then, like a praying mantis, she would crush them mercilessly. Her ruthless impassivity was a technique I had observed in practice many times and it was, invariably, devastatingly, outrageously successful. To see Miriam at work among men was to witness something like a Miss Havisham, who just happened to look like Hedy Lamarr.

‘So what brings you to Club Row? Have you come for a dog, Miss Morley?’ asked Willy, rather teasingly, I thought.

‘Not exactly,’ said Miriam, ‘no.’ She looked at me. ‘Though I do love dogs. On more than one occasion a stray dog on the street has followed me home. Isn’t that right, Sefton?’ I had no recall of any stray dog ever having followed her home and wasn’t quite sure what she was referring to. ‘Dogs just seem to come to me,’ continued Miriam. ‘But they must be trained properly, don’t you think?’

‘Indeed,’ said Willy, who had lost all interest in his pie and mash and who was now staring at Miriam, fascinated. It was always the way. I wasn’t quite sure how she did it.

‘I like dogs who are – what’s the word, Sefton?’

‘I’m not sure, Miriam,’ I said. ‘Docile?’

‘No,’ said Miriam.

‘Ferocious?’ offered Willy.

‘No, no,’ said Miriam.

‘Loyal?’

‘No.’

‘Obedient,’ said Willy.

‘Yes. That’s it. That’s the word.’

‘Obedience is important,’ agreed Willy.

‘Isn’t it,’ said Miriam. And she laughed, throwing back her head in studied abandon.

I was beginning to see that this was not really a conversation about dogs at all, except perhaps that like a dog spying an open gate, Miriam was taking off in whatever direction her whim took her.

‘And, remind me, what is it you do, Mr …?’ she asked.

‘Mann,’ said Willy.

‘Mr Mann. Curious name.’

‘It’s German,’ said Willy.

‘Ah. Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Willy. ‘My parents came here many years ago. Their first language was Yiddish.’

‘Ah. The Mame Loshn. Das schadet nichts,’ said Miriam. ‘I do like to practise my German whenever I get the chance.’

Miriam’s tea arrived, in an actual cup, in an actual saucer, with an actual jug of milk, the café owner also seemingly having donned a fresh apron for the sole purpose of visiting our table.

‘Can I get you anything else, miss?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Miriam dismissively, returning to her captivation of Willy Mann. ‘So what brings you here this morning, Mr Mann?’ The freshly aproned café owner shuffled away. ‘You have business in these parts?’

‘I have business in many parts of London,’ said Willy.

‘Well, lucky you,’ said Miriam. ‘But here in particular?’

‘Willy and his business partners help protect the local community from the Black Shirts,’ I said.

‘Is that right?’ said Miriam.

‘That’s certainly a part of what we do here, yes,’ said Willy.

‘Well, that’s very good of you,’ said Miriam. ‘And you do that entirely out of the goodness of your heart, do you?’

‘We do, miss. Absolutely we do.’

‘Gratis, for nothing and entirely for free?’

‘Well, of course a business like ours—’

‘A protection racket,’ said Miriam.

‘We wouldn’t call it that, miss.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ said Miriam, taking a sip of her tea and wincing slightly. ‘But I would. Go on.’

‘A … service such as ours costs money, miss, as you can imagine.’

‘I can imagine, yes,’ said Miriam, who was looking around the café. ‘How much, exactly?’

‘Well, it depends, but let’s say as little as a shilling a week for your safety.’

‘A shilling.’

‘Very reasonable, don’t you think, miss?’

‘I certainly do not think,’ said Miriam. ‘There are by my count almost forty people currently in this establishment. If each of them paid you just a shilling each you’d have two pounds; is that correct?’

‘Your maths is impeccable,’ said Willy.

‘So that’s two pounds per week, making eight pounds per month from the patrons of this café alone.’

‘But not everyone in this café would be paying us a shilling a week.’

‘I’m sure they wouldn’t. They’d be far too sensible. And if they don’t?’

‘If they don’t what?’ said Willy.

‘If they don’t pay you their shilling. I presume there’s the implied threat of violence.’

‘We offer protection,’ said Willy.

‘Which of course implies a threat,’ said Miriam.

‘Not from us,’ said Willy.

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So all your clients have willingly entered into a voluntary contract with you?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘A contract that essentially consists of you granting them protection in return for the payment of a small cash sum.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So in effect your clients stand in relation to you and your associates as, say, children, or women – or indeed property – who are in some way incapable of protecting themselves and who therefore need protecting?’

‘You could put it like that,’ agreed Willy.

‘Which makes them effectively chattels or slaves,’ said Miriam.

Willy was about to speak but Miriam held up her arm, commanding silence, and then turned to me. ‘I had thought, Sefton, that you might have kept rather better company.’

Willy did not look amused. He looked – well, he looked – emasculated.

‘Anyway,’ said Miriam, ignoring Willy’s obvious irritation. ‘I really shouldn’t be barging in on you boys. I’m sure you have lots to discuss. Racketeering. Extortion. Fraud. White slavery, also?’

Willy got up from the table.

‘You’ll excuse me, but I have other more serious business I need to attend to,’ he said.

‘Oh, really?’ said Miriam. ‘What a shame.’

‘It’s been a pleasure, Miss Morley.’ He didn’t offer his hand.

‘Hasn’t it just?’ said Miriam.

‘Sefton, you know where to find me,’ he said.

‘I do, thanks, Willy.’

‘Byesie bye!’ said Miriam. ‘Mahlzeit!’

And with that, he was gone.

I noticed then that the hubbub in the restaurant had died down. We were drawing attention to ourselves. Or, rather, Miriam was drawing attention to us.

‘Miriam,’ I said quietly, ‘you were really terribly rude to the poor chap.’

‘Oh, come on, Sefton. He’s big enough and ugly enough to take it,’ said Miriam, not at all quietly. ‘Well, maybe not ugly enough. But you know, you really have the most appalling taste in friends and acquaintances.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I said.

‘And so you should,’ she said. ‘It’s a mark of your character. Anyway, enough about him. I’m so glad you called.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? What is it you wanted, Miriam?’

‘Father’s in terrible danger.’