Heaven's Promise (7 page)

‘Ah yes,' he pointedly said, glancing over my way, ‘our sisters are much in demand these days amongst the white boys trying to make up for the sins of their forefathers.'

My tongue moved without prompting as I saw red, not black, in front of me.

‘Perhaps if the sisters were better treated by their so called brothers,' I stated, looking straight at Daddy C., ‘then they wouldn't be crossing the tracks in such great numbers and leaving them behind.'

In an instant Daddy C.'s face turned serious and he started in on me.

‘What do you know about the sisters?' he demanded, ‘or the black man, come to that?'

But before I could drop a line like, ‘only what a 1000 sisters have told me,' or something equally as stupid because, face it, guys treated gals the same the world over and nothing it is to do with colour, Brother P. was ordering us to cool it, cool it and cool it. Daddy C. kept staring hard at me as I agreed we should drop it but he knew the value of getting in the last word, after all he had studied many politicians, and he wasn't going to throw away the chance.

‘Trouble with a lot of people in this town,' he said, ‘they think everything is cool and irie but they know jack shit. You should come round my yard. Large council estate, no one works and there's a fucking war going down between us and the so called civilized white majority. We're getting cuffed up every day, families, children, the lot and no one wants to help us. Not the pigs or anyone. The day we break free from this hell is the day we will start to live and the only way to do that is to unite amongst ourselves and break free. You see, Mr. DJ Man, you don't check it, do you?'

I couldn't resist his question. ‘How do you mean?'

‘You play black music, seen?'

‘Yeah.'

‘So how many black DJ's you know?'

I couldn't argue on that point because Daddy C. was stone cold correct. There were very few blacks manning the dex at clubs and it was the same, right across the board, wherever you looked. My momentary silence signalled victory for Daddy Cecil but before he could exult, Brother P. suddenly put in, ‘I read a report the other day which showed that there was one group of people which the cops hassle more than anyone. And that's the Irish.'

Just then, and before I could add anything else, a white girl entered the cafe and came over to the table.

‘Hi,' she said, sitting down next to us. ‘Thank you for showing up for the interview. I was sure that you would not come.'

Daddy C. didn't even look at her but sensing our chance to break away, Brother P. said, ‘Well, we'll leave you to it,' and with that we rose to our feet because although Daddy C.'s grievances could be heard right across the Kingdom, and, unfortunately, had much substance to them, the fact still remained that he was not a man you could sit, eat and parlare with without voices being raised or tempers being disturbed.

I went to touch skin in a gesture of friendship but he simply kissed his teeth, said, ‘That's right, walk away from the truth,' and, with that, we walked out into the market. On the quiet journey back to Westward Ho, Brother P. had nada to say about Daddy Cecil although I was still burning at his off hand treatment and it was only when we reached Oxford St. that Brother P. announced, ‘You know, you can't apply Afro American politics to this tight little island. It doesn't work,' and on that note we set sail for Davey Boy's, a tailor that we both use when the bank account is full, healthy and bouncy bouncy. Davey Boy is the complete East Ender, a breed unto themselves, reared on their own strict traditions and, especially in Davey's case, with a real sense of pride about the East End's involvement in fashion. As he never tired of telling us, the skinhead, suedehead and soulboy (the tribe called S he named it), had all been born round his way and then spread, in different variations, right across the country.

Although they had lost the casual to South London, no doubt somewhere in the East End, someone was planning a new look and style for, after all, at the heart of the area is a thriving rag trade and a black market, all of which need constant nourishment.

Davey Boy, himself, was a motor mouth with balls who, as far as we were concerned, came from the right side of the tracks for it wasn't that long ago he had been arrested for fighting fascist skinheads.

‘Not right, is it?' he once explained to us, ‘going round calling people all kinds of names and beating the shit out of them because of the skin they were given. Fucking ridiculous. That kind of thing really offends me. Now, my grandfather, God rest his soul, that's a different kettle of poisson altogether.

‘Dear old boy but he was a nutter and he loved to rumble. Joined up as one of Oswald's boys, didn't he, until he was made to see sense but, as I always say, we all take a wrong turning in life and as long as you realise you've gone astray and try and do something about it, then it's not the end of the world by a long mark.'

To give the man his laurels, Davey knew his gears inside out. All you had to give him was a year, say 1963, and he could tell you, on the spot, exactly what fashions were going off, who was running the scene and where it all went. Better still, just mention a film or a well known personage from the distant past, and he knew the design inside and out.

‘Jacket like Sammy Davis's in A Man Called Adam, no problemo.'

Davey Boy was an invaluable time box to the last thirty years, a man who could lead you like a child through a staggering array of styles and fashions and, what's more, knew exactly what you were after just by the reference points you dropped.

What's more, he was a hustler supremo whose every action was dictated by the colour of money and so, even though I didn't trust him as far as I could throw him, the charm and cheek made him impossible to dislike.

On this particular occasion, as we strolled in, Davey Boy welcomed us both with numerous pins jutting out of his mouth In front of him stood a tall, blond haired, blue eyes specimen who stood as straight as Nelson's column as Davey Boy pinned cloth against him.

Davey Boy motioned hello to us, unable to parlare until his work was finished and, on which occasion, he then greeted us with a boisterous, ‘Hello there, chaps,' a definite touch of the upper class accent very discernible in his voice.

Brother P. and I cottoned on straight away as to the social standing of his customer as Davey continued his line.

‘Now then, sir, on the sleeve, how many buttons would sir like? One? Two? Or maybe we might want to think about going out on the limb somewhat and adding four buttons. What does sir think?'

‘Just the one will be fine,' came the booming reply, the depth and command of the voice betraying army roots. In his hand he held a cloth version of the family crest which the toff had decided should be displayed on the jacket's top pocket as pater and mater would undoubtedly be absolutely thrilled to see it shown off in public.

Trying to figure out why this upper class specimen from the realms of high society was not down at Hacketts with the rest of the braying bunch, Brother P. and I began examining the long rolls of cloth that Davey had stacked against the walls whilst a mix of envy and hatred began to surface in my stomach.

I know it's uncool and everything to judge a man's soul by his accent but from where I've been standing these past few years, whichever way you checked it, these people, the rich and privileged had been handed the sweetie jar the day they were born and they were not about to share out the goodies.

What's more, it was their set up, from the playing fields of Eton to the company boardroom, that kept out anyone with infinite more imagination and intelligence from getting to where they wanted. No doubt about it, the higher you climbed in this society the stupider the people became, and that's the truth, Ruth. Not only were they mostly a bunch of hypocrites, prattling on about morals and the like whilst they are robbing some company account blind and knocking off the gardener or the maid, but the codes of conduct and routine they had devised were like antiquated children's games.

Next time you're there check out the House Of Lords or Parliament and all that eyes to the right, eyes to the left, don't walk in front of him and remember to bow routine that goes on, all put there so that they can go from public school to parliament, and never know the difference. If truth be known, such people, removed as they are from life's edges, ups and downs, circles and squares, I sometimes feel a little sorry for because, face it, you've got to be half a robot to go through with it all in the first place, although please don't get me wrong, I'd rather go forty days and nights without hearing a decent tune than ever feel total simpatico with the likes of Lord Haw Haw that Davey Boy was now attending to.

It was time, I decided, for some class warfare.

‘Oi, Davey Boy,' I called across the shop in my best Cockney accent, ‘comin' dawn the pub for a shandy later?'

The man of cloth, spotting the game that was afoot, quickly put me out of play by shooting me a glance of such withering contempt that in an instant, I felt like a kid caught pissing in the sink, and so I ended further communicado until Lord Haw Haw was up and finished and striding out of the shop.

‘Don't wind up the punters,' complained Davey Boy, wrapping away the cloth, ‘you'll only put me out of pocket plus it ruins all my chances of breaking into the deb's circuit and finding myself a little wild child who can keep me in a style that I am unaccustomed to, know what I mean?'

It was true that Davey Boy was on the lookout for a partner for he had recently left his wife of nine months standing, his explanation for this whirlwind marriage being based on the fact that he and his sweetheart had been longtime lovers but once the knot had been tied, the magic suddenly vanished and they drifted apart.

The other story doing the rounds told a different tale. This story had Davey Boy come home one night to find his beloved, drunk in bed, wearing a newly bought leather biker's jacket. Davey Boy, who is allergic to all motorbike or rocker gear, demanded that either the jacket went or he did.

As no coat has yet been designed to stand up and transport itself when asked, and as the wife had just raided the holiday cashola to buy it, Davey Boy had no choice but to accept his wife's stern refusal and leave the field of play, hence his current enthusiasm to resume action on the gal front and find someone caked up enough to help him out on the alimony deal now heading his way.

‘Anyway, I'm glad you've strolled in because I want a word in both your shell-likes, if you don't mind.'

‘Sure, Davey Boy,' I replied, ‘but only if you tell us what Lord Haw Haw was doing here. I mean it's hardly his neck of the woods.'

‘Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Have you heard about this Acid House scene that's starting up? I need to know if it's a goer or not.'

‘That must be the club Dillon was about,' I said to Brother P.

‘Why are you interested?' asked my companion.

‘See, the other night I went out with my kid brother. I see a lot more of the kid now that I'm at home and he hates it because I'm always taking the piss out of him in front of his little girlfriends. I say little but you should see some of them. You'd get arrested if you didn't know their age.

‘Anyway, one night I'm bored and that, so I tag along with him to this club round our way. I used to go there myself so that shows you how far I've come in life. Still, they say everything goes round in circles.

‘Now, I'm not kidding you but it was un-be-fucking-lievable down there. There's all these young'uns, togged up like farmers in baggy jeans and dungarees, off their heads and going absolutely mad. They were all over the shop. You could tell. Their eyes were shot and they didn't have a care in the world. Friendly as fuck, mind you, no bother whatsoever.

‘Anyways, the place is rammed and there's dry ice everywhere and these bleedin' strobe lights going off every five seconds. You remember them don't you? Nah, course you don't, you were just a twinkle in your dad's bollocks then but you know the sort I mean. Ones that flash all the time and you get a fucking great headache watching them.

‘Anyways, it was manic down there so I pulled my kid brother aside and asked him, what the fuck is going on? You know what he does? He pulls out these three white pills and tells me that at least three quarters of the bods there have dropped one and that's why everyone is going beserk. They're called Ecstasy and apparently you don't give a fuck once you've dropped it or as my kid brother says, got right on one.

‘Doesn't sound right to me. I mean, in my day, it was blues that did the trick but this stuff is something else. I dunno, maybe I'm getting on but I told him if I saw him dropping one I'd make his life hell rather than ecstasy.'

‘So what had this got to do with Lord Haw Haw?' I enquired.

Davey Boy put down the cloth and gave a knowing smile.

‘I've got a mate, see, who hires out equipment for weddings and knees up. Anyway, the other day he got a call from some toff who was in a right two and eight because all the gear he'd ordered for some end of term ball hadn't turned up.

‘So my mate bells me and off we go down to Putney to this really posh college with huge lawns and a river. All the geezers are in penguin suits, the birds have got the gowns on and by the time we've set everything up, everyone is on the champers and it's roaring.

‘Me and my mate have got nothing to do now except make sure that nothing breaks down so we have a few shandies and the next thing I know I'm half pissed and telling Lord Haw Haw that that I could make him a jacket that would piss over any Savile Row job. I give him my card and then I don't see him again.

‘I woke up the next day feeling like shit and I'm sitting in here drinking coffee, trying to recover when who should walk in but Lord Haw Haw there. Turns out he was one of the organisers of the do and they had run into a spot of bother because some little oik had strolled in there and took a load of happy snaps of them all completely off their nuts and groping each other. I was so pissed I didn't see any of this going on but the happy snapper has only sold the photos to one of the dailies.