September Song (28 page)

‘And you think  . . .?' I said.

‘Oh, come on,' she said. ‘The boys weren't particularly careful. Mr Fitz knew they were setting up on their own. He shops 'em to the West Indians. They deal with 'em for him. He's in the clear. No gang war. They don't deal with 'em properly, he does, and the West Indians get the blame. As it happens, your mate is around and he's in the frame. So
everyone's
in the clear and Mr Fitz is owed a favour.'

‘Oh,' I said, feeling way out of my depth.

‘And Mr Fitz's boys saw me, and they tell Ricky Mountjoy's family that I helped the pianist and know where their stuff is so they come and visit me.' She paused again. ‘And the worst thing about that is what they don't know.'

‘What's that?'

She shook her head vigorously, and her hair fell over her face. ‘I don't know why I'm telling you all this,' she said.

‘Maybe I can help,' I said.

She shook her head again. ‘I'll have a quick wash,' she said, ‘and then I'll come down for a sandwich. Thanks for the shirt.'

‘What's the worst thing about all this?' I said.

She sighed deeply. ‘The worst thing about this for me is that I ran away from the Mountjoys when I was fifteen and I've spent the last twelve years trying not to be found.'

I should have been happy.

I'd woken up that morning missing three people: Daff's daughter, Britain's pale imitation of James Dean and a piano player with some nasty habits. Pretty soon, I'd added a fourth to the list – Viv Laurence.

Now, it seemed, in a few short hours, I'd found them all.

Most of it was luck, of course, but all the same. If that's not the equivalent of picking the only eight draws on the coupon and scooping the pools, I don't know what is.

And though it is cheating to claim all four when two of them – Daff's daughter and Viv Laurence – were the same person, it's still not bad going.

But happy just didn't come into it.

Philip Graham was, I hoped, tucked up somewhere, safely out of harm's way, but Leroy Summers was banged up in chokey on a double-murder charge that he'd confessed to, and Viv Laurence was up to her rather sweet, if slightly worn, neck in ouble-tray.

The corned beef and sweet pickle sandwiches were not consumed in celebratory vein, and the lukewarm stewed tea that washed them down tasted just like lukewarm stewed tea. In fact, neither Viv nor I said anything as we worked our way through the entire plateful. We were both brooding.

Jerry located a jar of fish paste and smeared it on the last two slices of his Neville's loaf. He looked at me accusingly. We'd just scoffed his tea. ‘That's it,' he said. ‘I hope you're not looking for breakfast tomorrow.'

‘Breakfast's in Costello's. On me,' I said, which cheered him up a bit. Well, enough for him to put a precious Louis Armstrong recording of ‘Basin Street Blues' carefully on the radiogram. Sadly, even that failed to lift my mood. I really was brooding.

I finished the last mouthful of my half of the fish-paste sandwich, licked my lips – not because it had been so tasty but to remove a few dry crumbs that had adhered to them – and realized it was time to be decisive. ‘Viv,' I said, ‘do you have anywhere you can go?'

She looked at me blankly

‘Well, you can't go back to Old Compton Street, can you? Ricky can just pick you up again any time he likes. Best if you went absent without leave for a week or two. Till things sort themselves out.'

‘I hadn't thought,' she said. ‘Maybe I could stay here. Just for tonight.'

‘Well, tonight might be all right,' I said, ‘but the Mountjoys know this is where I live, and they might well pay me a visit. Which means it's not a long-term solution. So, any ideas?'

She gave a little shake of her head.

‘That's fine,' I said. ‘I'll give it some thought and make a call or two. See what I can sort out.'

I did have a couple of ideas. My brain had not been completely inert while I'd been eating. It was probably the fish paste. Good for the brain, fish.

The two bars of Jerry's electric fire glowed fiercely as the gloomy afternoon turned into a gloomier evening. The little rectangle of warm orange light on the radiogram beamed cheerfully at us through the increasing shadows.

Jerry stood up and turned on the harsh overhead light, then disappeared into the scullery, and I heard him feed a couple of coins into the meter. I followed him out and handed him two bob.

‘Thanks,' he said. He nodded at his living room. ‘You going to tell me the story?'

‘Of course,' I said. ‘Just not now.'

‘All right,' he said. ‘And I don't mind playing host here, but I am absolutely not putting on any Dickie Valentine. I hope that's understood.'

‘Not even “I Wonder”?' I said.

‘Especially not “I Wonder”!' he said.

‘Thank God for that,' I said and punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Can I use the phone for a bit?'

‘Be my guest,' he said.

I wandered back through Jerry's living room and into the darkened shop.

I called Jeannie Summers at her digs, but her landlady told me she'd been out for some time.

I then called Les, but it wasn't my day. He wasn't there, but I left a message with the young woman who answered asking for Charlie and a car in the morning.

For the second night running, I slept in Grand-père's chair in my office. For all the events and people buzzing in my head, I managed to nod off quite quickly and stay nodded off for a good few hours.

The three brandies I'd swallowed down in short order at the Antelope probably helped. I'd thought the least I could do was buy Jerry a pint or two and a packet of Smith's crisps and a pickled onion, and all three of us – Viv swathed in an old black mackintosh borrowed from Jerry – spent a pleasant hour and a half in the pub.

The Antelope was always a bit subdued on a Sunday night. Even Mickey Morgan had forsaken the place, presumably for the delights of domestic bliss, so we had a chance to talk.

I asked Viv about her time with the Mountjoys, but she wasn't very forthcoming. She just said she'd had enough by her teens and the war had offered her a chance to escape and get out. Her especial dislike was reserved for the old boy, her grandfather, which made me think. She shuddered slightly at the thought of him and made a face and a sound that suggested she was smelling or eating something very unpleasant.

It turned out that she'd picked her new name by putting together the Christian names of her two favourite film stars, who just happened to be married to each other, the glamorous Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier. She got the idea because someone had once told her she looked like Vivien Leigh in
Waterloo Bridge
. Maybe she had when she was thirteen, but she didn't much now. She had told us that with a big laugh and an, ‘Imagine!', so I guess she knew she was far too blowsy and worn to be mistaken for the elegant and delicate Miss Leigh these days.

She was proving to be a resilient woman, though, and was obviously getting over her ordeal at the hands of the Mountjoys. She'd even suggested that there was a couple at the church who might be able to put her up for a few days. But I had what I thought was a better idea.

Anyway, we'd all, even Jerry, been tucked up in bed by half past ten, which in my case had been essential. I was knackered.

I awoke with a slightly stiff neck but surprisingly refreshed at about seven. The horse and cart from Heywood's Dairy was plodding past, crates clinking, Bob Heywood whistling and dumping bottles noisily on door steps. It was difficult to believe that I usually slept through all that, but apparently I did.

I got up, dressed and then tiptoed past a still slumbering Viv to the scullery where I splashed some water over my face and boiled up a kettle in order to shave and make some tea. The soft plop from the gas oven as I lit the ring was enough to wake her, and she joined me in the scullery, wearing my shirt and not a lot, if anything, else and yawning mightily.

‘Morning,' she said.

‘Morning,' I mumbled, trying not to stare at her slim, lean legs. ‘Tea?'

‘Please,' she said.

‘Ah,' I said, remembering that I didn't have any milk. ‘Costello's, the café over the road, is open. We can go there.'

‘I'm parched,' she said.

‘Sorry, no milk,' I said. ‘Don't know why, but I haven't found much time for visits to the Co-op over the last few days.'

‘I heard a milkman just now,' she said.

And so she had.

I didn't hang about and raced off down the stairs and out of the front door.

It wasn't a bad morning. A bit chilly, but there was no hint of rain in the high cloud. A couple of buses, full of bleary-eyed factory workers, trundled past, a solitary, old black Ford struggled around the corner into Lea Bridge Road, and four or five cyclists glided along, but I couldn't see any sign – apart from a few steaming lumps in the middle of the road and pints of milk, little silver tops winking at me in the early morning light, left on steps outside the shops – of Bob Heywood or his old nag. It did cross my mind to ‘borrow' a pint from the boot and shoe repairer's three doors down, but the action could have been misconstrued by someone passing.

No, it was going to have to be Costello's.

I went back in and banged on the door that led off the corridor into Jerry's shop. For some reason, I borrowed Billy Cotton's catchphrase. And that was odd because I never listen to the show. It's not my kind of music.

‘Wakey-waakey,' I yelled. ‘We're off to the caff. You coming?'

There was a muffled murmur from inside, and then Jerry opened the door. He, too, was already up and about. ‘On my way, my friend,' he said. ‘I believe you mentioned that you were buying.'

‘That's right,' I said.

‘Then you will find me a valiant trencher man,' he said. ‘I'll grab us a table.' And he was off and across the road before I was up the stairs.

Viv had pulled on most of her clothes by the time I got back, and she was buttoning my old shirt. Without any make-up she looked surprisingly vulnerable. She even looked a bit younger.

‘You got anything else I can wear on top?' she said. ‘It's probably a bit cold out there.'

I rummaged around in my extensive wardrobe and found an old grey pullover that I don't think I'd ever worn. It had been, of all things, a Christmas present from Bernie Rosen's Aunt Ruth, who I'd stayed with for a few winter months when I got back after the war. I have to say that it looked better on Viv Laurence that it would have done on me.

The kettle had boiled, and I shaved very quickly while Viv went out into the backyard to ‘use the facilities'.

We were only a few minutes behind Jerry, but, even so, he was on his second cup of coffee and the always lugubrious Enzo (I don't know where the idea that all Italians are of a sunny disposition comes from) was busy complaining that we had come at his busiest time.

‘What's the matter with you?' he said. ‘You showing off to your lady friend? You never come in before half eight. Why you gotta come now when I'm rushed off my feet?'

It was true that the place was busier than I've usually seen it, but all that meant was that there were two weary-looking workers with leathery faces sitting at one table drinking mugs of tea and a ruddy-faced woman who worked in the Co-op around the corner tucking into beans on toast.

‘Sorry, Enzo,' I said, ‘but I'm making an early start this morning. Things to do.'

He took our order and, still grumbling, went off to attend to his sizzling frying pans and grill and pay homage to the coffee machine that was wheezing away like an old man with TB.

He must have felt he was busy because he wasn't fiddling with the dial of his wireless as he usually did. In fact, the wireless wasn't even on. He did, though, manage to find time to light a cigarette and take a few puffs on it before breaking our eggs into a pan.

I was sipping my third cup of tea, and Viv and Jerry were mopping up the last of their eggs with fried bread when I glanced out of the steamed-up window next to me.

Church Road was quite busy now with workers streaming off to the London Electrical Wire Company and the Caribonum factory and school kids dawdling along, bouncing balls and yelling at each other. Two of them even stopped to play conkers. That didn't last long. One skinny, crafty-looking boy obviously had a grizzled old fighter on the end of his string. Two hits and the shiny brown sphere dangling from the other boy's hand shattered.

But, even if the street had been even more crowded, I would still have noticed the red and white Ford Consul sliding to a halt fifteen yards away by the bus stop. Another car stopped behind. It was black and looked new. It could have been one of the recent Austin Cambridges, but I couldn't see it properly.

George and his big mate got out of the Consul and stood on the pavement for a few seconds, and then the doors of the big black car opened and Malcolm Booth and his mate, Stanley, got out. All four of them slowly crossed the road – Malcolm a bit more slowly than the others. His ankle was obviously still troubling him.

Jerry pushed back his chair. ‘Better get off,' he said. ‘Post'll be here soon.'

‘Have another cup of coffee,' I said.

‘No, thanks,' he said.

‘I think you should,' I said and waved to Enzo.

I glanced out of the window again. The four big men were standing outside the entrance to the record shop now. George was banging on the door.

Enzo came over to our table. ‘Who's that, over at your place?' he said.

‘No one we want to see,' I said. ‘Can we have some more coffee and tea, Enzo, please?'

Viv nervously cadged a fag from Enzo. Jerry just looked worried.

‘Who is that, Tony?' Jerry said.