Baron's Court, All Change Page 6

  Then I remembered the letter of hers that I still had in my pocket. I took it out and gave it to her. She looked at the envelope and said, and she really said this, honest, “Oh fuck!” I was so embarrassed I didn’t know where to put my face.

  And that was that. She didn’t say another word until I left her at the bus stop, and then it was only, “See you later,” and as I took my seat in the bus and watched her tiny figure walk towards the station, I felt, for the first time in my life, a real brotherly feeling come over me. My sister Liz, who I was always having a go at and calling a drag and a square, was unhappy and I felt concerned.

  The morning at work was like a hundred others. Wait outside the shop for Mr Cage to come along and open up. “Morning, Mr Cage, sir” — sweep the shop out while the zombie they called a senior salesman pretends to dust the shelves, serve the cap customers because you don’t earn much commission on caps, and get the tea and pour it out while the other two watch you as if you were a slave.

  The zombie is a middle-aged jerk who lives with ‘Mummy’ in a toffee-nosed block of flats complete with mod. cons. ‘Auntie’ left him the flat when she pegged out two years ago, and he’s raving all the time about some poxy television personality who lives in the flat below him, and he gives us all the news and scandal about this poor chap that hasn’t done him any harm; especially the bits about how he brings all those effeminate young boys into the pad, and they make such a lot of noise, and I know he’s only jealous because his effeminate young boy’s days are over.

  Oh, man, I could scream!

  Then the important news came through the telephone, that Mr Pilkington, the shop inspector from Head Office, was on his way. The very first time I saw him I could have sworn that Hitler didn’t really commit suicide, but escaped. The way that Mr Cage obtained this news was brilliant (so he thought). The manager of the branch up the road let him know that old Pilkington had left his shop, and as he always came to our shop next, he would pass on the news. Brilliant, Mr Cage, brilliant!

  “All right, men,” Mr Cage would say, as if he was addressing a battalion of troops, “Pilkington’s on his way!”

  This was a sign for us to get busy, and if we didn’t have anything to do we’d better find something. Through the mirror that was in the shop’s doorway, we could always see Mr Pilkington approaching, and as he came through the door it was up to the zombie and myself to rush forward and pretend we had mistaken him for a customer, just to show him that our branch was on its toes.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine, Mr Pilkington, sir,” I would say, lying like mad.

  “I’m hearing some good reports about you from Mr Cage. Keep it up — keep it up.”

  “Thank you sir, thank you,” not caring a fuck about Mr Cage’s good reports.

  “Any chance of a relief manager’s position this summer, sir?” the zombie asked Pilk.

  “Yes, there are chances. Oh yes, quite,” he answered, knowing that he had as much chance of being a relief manager as I did.

  And so it went on. Each of us trying to kid each other that running a shop, a hat shop at that, was a very important thing. Like it was U.N.O. or something. These cats lived this hat shop thing. They weren’t pretending — it was their life. Just think of it. They gave their lives up to keeping peasants’ heads dry. If they were musicians, yes. If they were priests or doctors, yes; if they were poets or painters — but hat salesmen: oh God — no!

  I was so browned off with Down & Co when I walked out of the shop at one o’clock that I felt sick. I started to walk home instead of catching the bus, because I wanted to get the Down & Co smell off my clothes and off my body. It has a smell you know. Like age. I couldn’t even stand to be seen carrying my hat, so I pocketed a paper bag before I left the shop, and once I was clear I put it in that. As I walked down the street I watched the other shops closing and the other Mr Cages and the other zombies coming out, and they all looked really pleased with themselves. Automatically I went into a pub and when I pointed to a crazy-looking bottle with something green in, the barmaid gave me an “Are-you-old-enough?” look, but served me all the same.

  Then I went into the park, that has a big house in the middle of it which always reminded me of a castle. It was owned, so someone told me once, by a very rich cat, an eccentric millionaire, I think, who left it to the Air Training Corps or something mad like that, so instead of looking grand and royal like, which it should have done, it had these enormous canvas notices right across it saying: Join the A.T.C., which made a fool of that poor old castle. I sat down on the grass and smoked a cigarette and watched the kids playing; they looked very happy and I wondered if any of these poor little bastards would work at Down & Co one day, and if they did would they grow into another Mr Cage? It didn’t seem possible but it frightened me all the same.

  I wandered into the gardens and saw a gardener on his knees pulling out weeds amongst the flowers. He wasn’t exerting himself but doing everything very slowly, and there was a wonderfully contented look on his old leathery-looking face, and I envied him. I crossed the wooden bridge and went down to the pond which was very still and had great water lilies floating in it; they looked so strong that it made you think you could walk on them. This was the pond that when I was at school we fished for newts in. We tied a worm on to a piece of cotton and gently put it in the water, and along came a poor little newt and swallowed the worm. Then we pulled the cotton out with the newt dangling on the end of it. The alarm would go up and we were chased out of the park by the gardener.

  I thought to myself: Come off it, boy, you’re getting sentimental — and buggered off home.

  “Wipe your feet before coming into my house!” my mother called out as dad opened the door to me.

  He gave me a crafty wink, nodded in her direction, and whispered to me, “I’m dreading the winter coming. What’s it going to be like when there’s snow on the ground?”

  “Home for lunch?” I asked him.

  “Working round the corner. A lovely roof job, restacking the chimney. Don’t mind those in the summer,” he said, as though he’d been commissioned to paint Buckingham Palace. “Mother Manley’s in there.”

  “Oh no!” I just said.

  Mother Manley is a friend of my mum’s that has lived opposite us since the family moved into the house twenty years ago. There’s nothing wrong with her really, except that she talks. I mean she never stops talking and it’s always a lot of nonsense. If you try and start an intelligent conversation with her she has a gift of turning it into something quite different. As I approached the dining room I heard her lifeless high-pitched voice at work.

  “... and I told George, I said, it’s the change that makes all the difference. Here I am seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, without going any further than the Black Horse, so it’s about time I went away. It’ll do Young George the world of good as well. Looking quite pasty he is these days. I’m not like Mrs Walsh up the road, trooping off to Spain and the continent every year. There’s plenty of beauty to see in our own country without all these expensive holidays abroad...”

  She was so wrapped up in her rabbiting that she didn’t even notice me come into the room, until I’d seated myself down behind her. “Good Lord, you are growing,” she cried out when spotting me. “I don’t know who you take after, I’m sure, although your mother’s brothers are on the tall side...”

  I wasn’t taking any notice of what she was saying as her conversation about holidays was still in my mind. At this point I think I’d better let you in on an orgy my family take part in for two weeks in every year. I’m talking about their annual rave to Canvey Island. For fourteen days they pack their bags and troop down to this suburbanites’ heaven, and usually I tagged along with them. The depressing thing was that they were due to go again on the following Saturday. I hated the idea because for me it would be like fourteen Sundays at home with the sea in the background. The only pleasant thought about it all was that
I’d saved a pound a week out of my wages for this holiday, so if I didn’t go I could have a ball with it. I’d been saving for a year, so fifty pounds meant a hell of a good time.

  Mum came in with my fodder on a steaming hot plate which she held with a cloth. “Eat it while it’s hot,” she ordered me. She never missed saying that at every mealtime. Then she seated herself next to Mrs M.

  “Well now,” mum said, “we’ve got some news for you. Mrs Manley has managed to get the bungalow next to ours, for the same fortnight when we go to Canvey. She’s bringing Young George, too, so he’ll be company for you.”

  As you’ve probably guessed, Young George is Mrs Manley’s offspring, about the same age as myself, but thank God that’s about all we have in common. He’s learning to play the violin, and he practises every day, and he’s a boy scout. Rumour has it he’s over-friendly with the scoutmaster, but I couldn’t care less about that part; what he gets up to is his own business. I went to school with him. He was a prefect and the milk-monitor and top of the class and never late and I hated him.

  Dad said: “The weather forecast says we’re going to have some good weather next week.”

  Mrs Manley said: “Young George is so looking forward to it.”

  Mum said: “We haven’t missed a year at Canvey for twenty years, except during the war.”

  I said: “I’m not going.”

  They all said: “What!?!”

  “I’m not going. I’m sorry if you counted on me, but there’s a very important concert I’ve got to see and I just can’t miss it,” I lied.

  The funny thing was, they didn’t start having a go at me straight away. No, they played it cool at first, and told me not to be a silly little boy and give my holiday up just for a Jazz concert that lasted only a couple of hours. The change would do me good. Sea, sand, fresh air, ice cream, and to crown it all — Young George!

  “I’m sorry, if I’ve disappointed you,” I said quietly.

  “So we’re not good enough for you, is that it?” my mum shouted at me. “Your own family not good enough. I expect you prefer those tearaways at that Jazz Club of yours. Well, I’ll tell you this much: you’ve got to come. I order you to come, d’you hear?”

  I stood up and shouted back at her. “I’m not coming and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m not a snotty-nosed kid any more, and I’m too big to give a hiding to, so you’d better face the fact that nothing you do or say will make me go to that God-forsaken hole!”

  “But what about Young George? He was so looking forward to you being there,” chimed in Mother Manley, determined not to be left out of it all.

  “I couldn’t care less about that poof of a son of yours!” I screamed out at her. I left my lunch and walked with a big theatrical exit out of the room.

  It’s no use denying it, I regretted this little scene as soon as I’d escaped up to my room. I expected mum to come up and tell me what an ignorant rude young bastard I was, and make me apologise to old Mother Manley, but I didn’t see any more of her until I was leaving the house on my way to meet Liz, and then it was only a glimpse of her in the kitchen, and although she saw me too she didn’t say anything, and I felt a right cunt.

  The place where I lived comes under an area they call Greater London, which is such a ridiculous name I shan’t make any comment on it. So to get to the London which isn’t so great but a bloody sight better, you have to board a tube train which goes on a twenty minute journey above ground till you come to a station called Baron’s Court. Just as you leave Baron’s Court station the train goes underground, and this never failed to give me a little thrill. At that point, when the train first goes into the tunnel, you are leaving Greater London, where the natives starve themselves to buy a new car to show off to their neighbours with, and enter the manor of the real Londoners. The ones the whole world have heard about and respect, and when you cross this border the people seem to change from puppets into human beings. I know they still look miserable (you can’t fail to on the tube somehow), but they definitely change for the better. From Baron’s Court on you start hearing foreign accents and languages, and you see people that interest you (including the natives) — the scene starts to change from black and white into technicolour.

  I got off at Piccadilly Circus, which you can’t fail to mistake because of its neon lighting, up the escalator where the people that are going down stare at the people going up and the people going up stare at the people going down, and out with the rest of the mob into the street.

  Looking at the slip of paper Liz gave me, I found I’d come out of the wrong exit which I always managed to do somehow, so I crossed the street, passing Eros and all the hundreds of people staring at it. I never gave it a second glance because I’ve always thought that London’s statues are a complete wash-out, or most of them, anyway. Take Nelson’s Column, for example: all that column like a great big giant, and at the top there’s poor little Nelson that you couldn’t even see without the aid of his telescope. The steps and surroundings of Eros are the same; very impressive, but when you look for Eros himself you can hardly notice him.

  Liz was already waiting when I arrived at our meetingplace. Without saying a word we started walking back towards the Circus. I was waiting for her to make conversation. I expected her to start rabbiting away in her usual excited manner, but she didn’t, not a word.

  “Good day at work, Liz?” I asked, trying to get things going.

  “As well as can be expected,” she said coldly. Then silence again.

  The streets were crowded with people all leaving work and going home; walking in a confused but orderly mass. Relieved that it was all over for a few hours but knowing that they’d be doing the same thing, at the same time tomorrow and the next and the next day after that.

  “Where do you want to go? For a drink? I’ll buy you a Babycham, if you like. Do you remember you had seven last Christmas, got drunk and sang six choruses of Mother, I Love You while mum sat down and cried her eyes out?” I said.

  “I’d rather have a coffee if you don’t mind. This place will do,” she said as we came to a respectable-looking place of refreshment.

  I chose a quiet corner where we could sit and talk without having an audience and ordered the coffees. I was just planning the best way to get Liz talking, when who should I see in another dark corner of the coffee bar but Danny the Dealer, the cat who’d first introduced me to Dusty. He saw me at the same time and beckoned me across to his table. I asked Liz to excuse me and found my way over to this Irishman whom I’m sure is as English as I am.

  “What happens that I find you in such a square and respectable joint, Danny boy? The waitress buying or something?” I said, sliding on to the form next to him.

  He looked far from happy. “Man, I’m finished — really finished — washed up and kaput!”

  “What do you mean, Danny? What gives?”

  “I’ve been nicked, and lumbered at that!”

  “What? I can’t believe it! It’s no good telling you how sorry I am, that won’t help you, but how on earth did it happen?” I asked him.

  “Man, it hurts me to talk about it,” he said, but I knew he was dying to tell me all the same. He continued: “They’ve known about me for a long time and I knew there was going to be trouble soon. I got the tip-off from a very reliable source of information. A few days before I found this very depressing fact out, I’d been on my usual expedition to that fair city of Liverpool, and picked up a very swinging two pound weight, which I might add, was Congo Matadi. So what did I do? I sold the lot at a ridiculous price just to get it off my hands. Then I waited for Mr Law’s visit feeling very pleased with myself, as I’d have the laugh on them. But... oh man, I can’t go on!”

  After a few minutes of pissing about giving him all my sympathy and all that nonsense, he carried on with his tale of woe. “Well, eventually they arrived. I opened the door, welcomed them in — six of them there were — and they pulled the place apart. I gave them all the help I could
, opened drawers for them, the lot. And guess what happened, man? When they realised the gaff was clean they took some out of their pockets, right in front of me, mind you, and asked me where I got it from. Man, I swear by all that’s holy, that they put it there, and when I called them all the dirty bastards under the sun they told me I’d better be quiet or else they’d show me how rough they can get. Man, this has finished me. I’ve lost faith in human nature. British Law and Justice be fucked!”

  “Man, that’s bad,” I said. “It’s not only bad it’s frightening. That means all us cats that have a little harmless smoke aren’t safe. No matter how cool you play it, if they want you they’ll get you. So what happened, did the magistrate take a lenient view and let you off?”

  “Let me off? I’m on a fortnight’s remand on bail, and come up tomorrow. This is it, man, they’ll sling the book at me this time. I’m already on two years’ probation for the same thing. The first time’s okay, but the second innings they throw the book at you. You’ll have to buy your little smoke off someone else now.”

  I was mad. I wasn’t only mad at the deal the law gave to Danny, but I was annoyed he was out of business. Although he pulled a few strokes on you now and again, Danny was a very reliable pusher. You couldn’t call his deals huge, but you could always rely on him for quality. He never lumbered you with any duff gear, and if you were lootless any time you fancied a smoke he’d always give you credit. Danny would be missed.

  I said my farewells to him, wished him luck for his performance in the morning and returned to Liz.

  “I know that fellow from somewhere,” she said. “Who is he?”

  “No one in particular,” came my reply. “Just someone I know from the Katz Kradle.”

  Her face seemed to be deep in thought. “Just a minute. Doesn’t he sell reefers?”

  “No, he doesn’t,” I snapped back at her, “and don’t call them reefers, you sound so square.”