by Ian Sansom
‘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.’
‘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.’
CHAPTER 7
I HAD HEARD THIS LINE BEFORE. Miriam’s idea of her father being in terrible danger included his being overworked, underworked, unduly praised, under-appreciated, slighted, patronised, put-upon or indeed treated in any way other than the way in which Miriam treated him, which is to say with absolute, unquestioning devotion and utter dis-dain.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me what sort of danger, Sefton?’
‘What sort of danger, Miriam?’
‘He is being hunted.’
‘Hunted?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Hunted by?’
‘An American, of course.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘An American adventuress.’ If Miriam had had pearls to clutch, she’d have been clutching them.
‘I see.’
‘Americans being undoubtedly the most dangerous among all the world’s adventuresses.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ I said.
Morley was, admittedly, rather susceptible to the attentions of women whose interest and affection he was, alas, entirely incapable of returning. This had caused problems in the past, would cause problems in the future, and had indeed sown considerable confusion among a large swathe of the forty-plus, middle, upper and aristocratic single, divorced and widowed female population of Britain, Europe and North America.
‘Honestly, Sefton, this one has more hooks in her than the proverbial poacher’s hatband,’ continued Miriam, ‘and she is tickling him like a trout.’
‘Like a trout, Miriam?’ I said, smiling.
‘Precisely, Sefton. Like a trout.’
‘Tickling him?’ I said, smiling again, though to no answering smile from Miriam, who was most definitely not in a playful mood.
‘Like a trout, yes, as I said, Sefton. She adopts this low husky voice whenever she’s talking to him.’ Miriam had a low husky voice of her own, I should say, which she used to good effect, and indeed now for the purposes of mimicry. ‘“Mr Morley, you must have the biggest brain I have ever encountered.”’
‘Oh dear,’ I said.
‘It’s quite, quite disgusting,’ said Miriam, raising an eyebrow, the fashion back in those days having been for eyebrows to be plucked to a single line, a fashion that Miriam had mercifully resisted. ‘And anyway, where is Maryland?’
‘Maryland?’ I said.
‘Where she’s from, apparently.’
I wasn’t entirely sure I could have identified Maryland on a map of the United States.
‘Is it a land of Marys?’ I asked.
Miriam ignored this weak joke, a sure sign of her being both irritated and distracted; usually she’d have pounced without hesitation.
‘She was once a keen horsewoman, so she says, though frankly it’d take a shire horse now.’
‘I’m getting the impression you’re not over keen—’
‘And she claims to be an expert on posture, of all things – she’s the Lady President of the American Posture League. She’s written a book, God help us. Slouching Towards Gomorrah. And she’s a divorcee,’ she said. ‘Her first husband was called Fruity.’
‘Was he?’
‘I simply cannot take seriously a woman whose ex-husband is called Fruity, can you?’
‘No.’
‘And her second husband was called Minty.’
‘Minty? Are you sure, Miriam? You’re not making this up?’
‘Of course I’m not making it up, Sefton.’
I only asked because Miriam herself spent much of her time during those years with various unsuitable Fruitys and Mintys, while I spent much of my time when I wasn’t with Miriam in the company of Sluggers and Rotters and other ridiculously named low-life Soho characters. I rather miss the nicknames and sobriquets of the dog-end days of the thirties: they were, I see now, for all their squalor, the last days of innocence.
‘The woman is mounting a campaign, Sefton,’ Miriam continued, and she was certainly someone who knew a campaign being mounted when she saw one, so I suppose it must have been true.
‘What sort of a campaign?’
‘A campaign to marry Father, Sefton!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes! She might as well be wearing a veil and carrying a bouquet, for goodness sake. It’s quite ridiculous.’
‘Would you like another cup of tea, Miriam?’ I thought this might calm her down.
‘No, I don’t want another cup of tea. I want you to take this threat seriously.’
‘Of course I take it seriously, Miriam.’
‘Do you, though?’
‘Yes. Entirely.’
‘She is bogus, Sefton, that’s the problem.’
‘Bogus?’
‘Yes. She’s a singer.’
‘What sort of a singer?’
‘Opera. Allegedly.’
‘Allegedly?’
‘Well, I’ve never heard her sing. She may be terrible. Father seems to think she’s marvellous. And she’s American – did I say?’
‘Yes, you—’
‘American par excellence. She’s like … Uncle Sam—’
‘Uncle Samantha, perhaps?’
‘But I can tell you, I think her excellence is rather far from par.’
‘Far from par,’ I repeated.
‘Correct. She is flirtatious and gay.’
‘You’re gay and flirtatious, Miriam.’
‘Yes, but I’m twenty-one years old, Sefton, I’m supposed to be gay and flirtatious. This woman must be – I don’t know – fifty if she’s a day.’
‘Fifty?’ I said.
‘Fifty!’ said Miriam. ‘And she’s a terrible boozehound.’ Like Morley, Miriam had a habit of adopting hardboiled slang more suited to the pages of Black Mask magazine. Her other favourite tough-guy Americanisms included ‘the bum’s rush’, referr
ing to what or where I never quite understood, and the term ‘spondulix’ for money. In later years she also adopted the habit of saying ‘OK’ in response to everything. I was surprised, though, I must admit, that this threatening American was a drinker: Morley strongly disapproved of what he called spiritous drink. She clearly had him under her spell, a spell that Miriam seemed determined to break.
‘She is cloying and giddy,’ she continued. ‘She is dramatic and frowsy. She has this dreadful false laugh, and these ridiculous eyebrows, and eyes that just … winkle you out.’
‘I’m getting the sense—’
‘She is a mean, snobbish, vile, raddled, primped, crisped and bleached sort of a beast, Sefton.’
‘I—’
‘With this ludicrous heaving embonpoint. Constantly projecting.’
‘She—’
‘She belongs in a straitjacket, frankly.’
‘That’s a bit strong, Miriam,’ I said.
‘A bit strong, Sefton? She is fake, man. Completely fake! She recently sang the virgin in Gounod’s Faust, for goodness sake.’
‘But—’
‘She is oval and—’
‘I get the impression that you’re really not keen,’ I said.
‘Whether or not I am keen, Sefton, is entirely beside the point. Theirs is a friendship that is frivolous, fraudulent, purposeless and dangerous.’ A more accurate description of Miriam’s own relationships with men it would be difficult to imagine. ‘She has a dangerous hold on him, Sefton. Like Wallis Simpson. And you know what they say about her and her Shanghai tricks.’
‘Speaking of friendships,’ I said, not wishing to encourage Miriam to speculate any further upon Mrs Simpson’s much rumoured amatory skills and virtuosities out loud in an East End pie and mash shop.
‘Yes?’ said Miriam, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Might I cadge a cigarette, Sefton?’ Cadge she did. ‘Would you mind?’ I dutifully lit her cigarette, she tossed back her head, took a deep gulp and relaxed. ‘Go on,’ she said, gesturing with her cigarette.
At this point, an almost total silence had descended upon the café, as more of the customers recognised Miriam’s defining and indeed dominating presence among us.
‘Miriam,’ I said, lowering my voice, ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to resign.’
She did not respond.
