The Credit Draper

by J David Simons

  “You write the letter from the code on the line?”

  “Very good.” Uncle Mendel picked a card now. He did so very slowly, slipping it off the top of the pack and along the table. He bent back a corner – a sin of card abuse that in the eyes of Madame Kahn would have meant expulsion from the table.

  “Bah!” Uncle Mendel threw away the nine of spades which Avram promptly picked up. He gleefully laid out all his cards.

  “Oy, boychik. What happened?”

  “I won.”

  “All out in one.”

  “You must pay me double.”

  “So they say.”

  Avram picked up the cards, shuffled while Uncle Mendel wrote down his score, passed over two matchsticks.

  “The bicycle you can ride?”

  “Nearly.”

  “Nearly is not good enough. Tomorrow we start. Follow me on my rounds for a few weeks. Listen and learn.”

  “I will try.”

  “If you can’t ride, you can run. After one month, you are on your own.”

  “On my own?”

  “Here you will stay and visit my customers. Collect payments. Get more orders. I must go back to Glasgow.” Uncle Mendel explained how he needed to sort out his alien status, fulfil orders, look at new samples. “When I come back, it will be your turn to go down there to complete the orders. The goods you can carry, you bring back from Glasgow with you. The rest you send on to the post office in Lorn.”

  “Can you make money just by selling shirts and aprons and girdles?”

  “See. Already a business head you have. No, we also measure up suits for my brother-in-law’s shop. And larger items we also sell. Furniture. Dressers. Linen presses. Chests of drawers.”

  “How can we do that?”

  “From brochures. The transport the warehouse arranges. Some new brochures I’ll bring back with me to show the customers. Now, deal, boychik. How do you say? The night is young.”

  Thirty

  THE WEATHER WAS KIND TO AVRAM those first few weeks. He didn’t get to experience what it was like to be holed up soggy and shivering waiting for the rain to pass, or to be lashed by sheets of it as he moved across the countryside pushing a bike laden with parcels. He didn’t get lost in mists, pounded by sleet or have to squelch through mud that sucked the boots off his feet. Still, the work was hard and Uncle Mendel kept a tough schedule. They often walked or cycled up to twenty miles a day on terrain not known for its flatness. But it was healthy work, and day by day he felt his muscles build and his lungs expand.

  They were always fed at the end of their treks and, as with the arrangement with the Kennedys, Uncle Mendel had organised accommodation en route where he stored some kosher dishes, where there was always a bed of straw for the night. No matter how early he woke, Avram would always find Uncle Mendel standing in some corner of the byre or barn, under the cover of his tallith, his tefillin perched upon his forehead and wrapped around one arm, rocking backwards and forwards to the rhythm of his mist-breathed prayer. At times like these, Avram would lie still among the straw listening to the man’s muttered intonations as they lulled him back into a comfortable half-sleep. There, he would dream of a small synagogue where tallith-cloaked men droned their prayers in a ghostly undertone. The most elaborate glass lanterns hung at various heights from the vaulted ceiling, the white silk-covered scrolls of the Torah with their silver ornaments shone from the nest of the Ark like the display of some fabulous treasure. In such a scene, Avram could feel his body rock too – not to the lilt of prayer but to the swing of his mother’s arms as she observed the scene below from her place in the gallery. And when later in the day of such a dreaming, after their hosts had sent them on their journey with a pocketful of eggs, a loaf and a hunk of cheese, fragments of his dream would rise to his consciousness. The synagogue he knew belonged to his Russian past. And he dared to imagine that somewhere within the shrouded congregation, stood the man who was his father.

  As they traipsed around the countryside from customer to customer, Uncle Mendel taught him how to properly measure a jacket or a suit, how to discuss the stitching and the cloth, how to calculate the price based on individual swatches. Avram learned about the different styles of collars and cuffs, the endurance of the fabric, what was in fashion and what was out. He became informed about aprons and bed linen, wardrobes and dressers and even lost his shyness when talking about girdles. He became adept at writing out orders, noting the mark-up according to the code, handing out invoices and the proper receipts. Uncle Mendel recognised his ability with figures and left him alone to work out percentages, total amounts outstanding, profits made. Avram memorised the details of each customer, where they were located on his route, how much of a mark-up they were entitled to, the number and names of the children in the family, how old they were, who was married to who. And Uncle Mendel would test him on each customer until he knew their life stories as well as he knew his own.

  Avram also discovered there was another side to the credit drapery business when Uncle Mendel brought out a small black notebook different from the one he usually used to mark down a payment from a customer.

  “What is that for?” Avram asked, trying to peer over his shoulder.

  “This is not your business.”

  “If you want me to look after things when you are away, I need to know everything.”

  “Perhaps,” Uncle Mendel said, putting away the notebook. “You see, boychik,” he sighed. “Sometimes I lend the customers money on credit so they can buy on credit. Even when from me they buy nothing, I will lend them.”

  “So, you are a money-lender?”

  “When in Glasgow I do business, it is more common. There, because my customers are near, I can keep my eye on them more closely, I can visit every week to collect. Here in the countryside, only rarely will I lend them. But if they are good customers and they are in need.” Uncle Mendel shrugged. “How else can a person survive out here?”

  “Do you want me to lend money too?”

  “Never,” Uncle Mendel said sternly. “To do that is only for me. But the instalments you may collect.”

  And it was unusual for a customer not to make due payment. Even if a farmer or his family were not at home, the money was often left in prearranged locations around the croft or farmhouse.

  “Cash is all we take,” Uncle Mendel warned. “No bartering. And be careful of …” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes the man is away and if there is no money … the wife might offer …”

  “Offer what, Uncle?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just take cash. That’s all to remember. Cash only. We only deal in cash.”

  But Uncle Mendel didn’t just lend money, trade in clothes, haberdashery and furniture or measure up suits for Kahn & Co. Avram saw that he dealt in another important commodity too. As they passed from village to village, farmhouse to farmhouse, croft to croft, Uncle Mendel became a carrier of news and gossip. With relish, he would pass on details of labour to be found, the dates for the spring and autumn feeings, prices fetched at market, bairns born, couples wed, old biddies passed away. Perhaps he would hand on a letter, a newspaper, a small package. But always he had a bottle of Scotch in his basket so he could furnish his hosts with a dram or two mixed in with a wee drop of scandal. Or a heated discussion on politics. After all, he was a man who not only knew the Torah in Hebrew but had read Marx in the original German.

  “What is socialism, Uncle? Celia is always talking about it.”

  “Ah. A big question, boychik.”

  “Can you explain it to me?”

  “In simple terms, it is the political philosophy of putting people before profit.”

  “That doesn’t happen now?”

  “No. Now it is profit first and people second.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “In theory? No. Men like Herr Stein and the Laird become wealthy and then perhaps to charities and their emplo
yees they give generously.”

  “That seems very fair to me. What’s wrong with that?”

  “You forget human nature, boychik. People are too greedy to make such a system work. They get rich and their wealth most of them keep for themselves. But socialism allows everyone to progress together by sharing the profits of their labour equally. Can you see the value in that?”

  Avram thought he did. But then again, he knew he had nothing and it was easy to share nothing. He wasn’t so sure how generous he would be if he had wealth to give away.

  “Does that make you a Marxist, Uncle?”

  Uncle Mendel laughed. “Karl Marx wasn’t even a Marxist. He was a bad-tempered German Jew who lived off his friends and worked not a day in his life.”

  “Are you a Bolshevik then?” he asked, remembering what the chemist Donald Munro had called the Oban stationmaster.

  Uncle Mendel laughed. “Look at me, Avram. I carry bags of aprons and girdles around the Scottish countryside. You think I look like a professional revolutionary?”

  Before Avram had a chance to ask more, Uncle Mendel diverted to one of his favourite themes.

  “Do you know what I like about Scotland, boychik?”

  “Tell me, Uncle.”

  “Look at how strange I must look to these people. Yet, still they accept me. Here I have the freedom to be a Jew.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Nu? Is that not enough?”

  “Not for you.”

  “Well, there’s the herring …”

  “Is that all, Uncle?”

  “There’s the whisky …”

  “Is that all?”

  “It’s enough for me, boychik.”

  “What about the horse-racing?”

  “What about it?”

  “Solly told me you make bets. Under the name of ‘Baked Fish’.”

  “That Solly should keep schtum about my business …”

  * * *

  They had been cycling south along the coach road when a horse-drawn wagon sped past forcing them to cover their eyes from the dust. A hundred yards or so further up the road, the wagon-driver pulled up and waited.

  “Why, it’s Jean Munro,” Avram said.

  “Ah, so it is.”

  When they caught up, Uncle Mendel raised his hat, revealing his yarmulke underneath.

  “Good afternoon, Madame Munro. Fine weather it is. A drop of rain I do not see for two weeks now.”

  Jean Munro nodded to both of them. Across her shoulders, she wore the same beige shawl Avram recalled from the first time he had seen her on his wind-swept arrival off the Rail-Motor service. She looked so young, even younger in the daylight, not much older than Megan. Yet there she was married to Donald Munro, a man Avram reckoned to be older than Papa Kahn. With deft movements of her hands, she inquired of their destination.

  “The Kennedys at Lorn,” Uncle Mendel told her.

  She motioned for both of them to get on board. Avram piled the bicycles onto the wagon, heaved himself up on the back while Uncle Mendel sat up beside Jean Munro. She half-stood on her perch, slashed with the whip and they were off at a gallop. Again Avram had to hang on to the sides to stop himself sliding off. What looked like the same collection of neeps and linseed cakes from his first trip on this wagon bounced around to keep him company. He leaned back and let the sky flash by above him, glad to let the horse take him the next few miles.

  At the Kennedy’s farmhouse, he waited as Uncle Mendel tarried by the wagon, exchanging words and gestures with Jean Munro. Eventually, he was asked to join them.

  “Next week Madame Munro wants you to call round when I am in Glasgow. Delighted with his suit her husband was. Now another one he wants. I have his measurements. Just take him over the swatches.”

  With another set of gestures, Jean Munro arranged the day and time of the visit. Then, another swipe of her whip and she was off. Uncle Mendel looked after her.

  “A fine young woman,” he said, rubbing his yarmulke across the top of his head. “But such a sadness.”

  The Kennedys were pleased to see them. The gamekeeper led Uncle Mendel into the parlour while his wife ushered Avram into the kitchen.

  “I’ll cook ye up some rashers,” she said. “Ye fair swallowed them down the last time.”

  “I can’t. My uncle would kill me.”

  “Well, they didnae do ye no harm, did they?”

  “They were delicious.”

  “Well, dinnae worry about Jew Moses. He has his ways and ye have yer ain ways. If I fry up some bacon, the smell always keeps him well out of the kitchen. And if I leave some slices on a plate there on the table … well, if they happen to disappear, so be it. I’ll not tell a soul. And if they happen to remain where they are, well I’ll be havin’ them meself.”

  She let out a little wheeze of pleasure, then busied herself in her preparations. He settled himself on a stool.

  “Do you hear from your son, Mrs Kennedy?”

  “Aye, we had a letter. Someone wrote for him. Didnae say much.”

  “What about your daughter? Megan.”

  “She’s no ran away again?”

  “I just wanted to know how she was.”

  “She’ll visit in her ain time.”

  Kenny Kennedy appeared in the doorway, quietly rubbing the bristle on his chin, watching his wife fuss at the stove.

  “Smells good,” he said eventually.

  “What d’ye want, faither? Standing there like a big lump of tatties.”

  “Twa glasses.”

  “It’s a wee bit early to start yer drinkin’. There’s milking to be done.”

  “I’ll manage.” He took a couple of shot glasses from the dresser and returned to the parlour.

  “They’ll be at it all night,” she said. “Rambling on about politics. Jew Moses gets faither well riled up with the talk of it. In my mind, there’s enough to be worrying about with the war on.”

  Mrs Kennedy went quiet then her body heaved with a massive sob.

  “Are you all right?” Avram asked.

  Tears were streaming down her cheeks. One even splashed with a hiss into the frying pan. She gave a loud sniff as if to snap shut all her upset. “I’ll be fine. I just get to thinkin’ about Jamie, that’s all.”

  Despite the drinking, Uncle Mendel was up fresh and cheerful in the morning, helping with the milking after his daily prayers. It was the gamekeeper who seemed the worse for wear, bleary-eyed and moaning as he pulled at Fadda’s udders.

  “I could dae with ye at harvest, Moses,” Kennedy said.

  Uncle Mendel shook his head. “Not me. But maybe the boychik? What about picking potatoes, Avram?”

  “Back-breaking work,” Kennedy interrupted, coughing up some phlegm and spitting it into the hay. “If ye want it, ye can have it. Better wait until the war’s over. We’ll be back shooting pheasants instead of Huns. Then ye can be a beater.”

  “A beater? What’s that, Mr Kennedy?”

  “Scaring the pheasants into flight. For the gentry to shoot them down again. All the lads round the estate dae it.”

  “I’d like that. Does it pay well?”

  “A few baw-bees. Enough to keep a young lad like yerself out of mischief.” Kennedy gave up on the udder. “Fadda’s done. We need to go, Moses, if yer to catch the Rail-Motor.”

  Before setting off for Benderloch station, Uncle Mendel gave Avram his cloth money-belt, showed him how to fasten it hidden below his waistband. Then there were the instructions. A list of customers to be visited, parcels to be picked up from the Lorn post office, the swatches to be taken over to Donald Munro.

  “In a fortnight I’ll be back,” Uncle Mendel said as he pulled his bulky frame up on to the gamekeeper’s wagon. “A message for the Kahns have you? A letter perhaps?”

  Avram shrugged. “Just tell them I’m fine.”

  Thirty-one

  “WHIT DAE YE WANT?” toothless Mad Aggie screamed, brandishing a skillet from the doorway of her cottage. Bits of feathe
rs adorned her frazzle of grey-white hair standing up on her head like teased-out steel wool. She wore a tattered woollen coat buttoned top to bottom, her feet stood skinny in a pair of enormous boots.

  “I’m Jew Moses’ nephew.”

  “Och aye. And I’m the Pope’s auntie.”

  “I’m telling you. I’m Jew Moses’ nephew.”

  “Och aye. And soon ye’ll be wanting money out of me.”

  “I’ve brought some nice samples in my parcels.”

  She scratched her chin where a few grey hairs sprouted. “Ye’ll still have to prove ye are who ye say ye are. Afore I let ye take one step further.”

  “I’ve got some fine blouses. Different colours.”

  “Prove yersel’ first.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Tell me something about Jew Moses. Something secret only ye and me ken.”

  “I don’t know. He likes baked herring.”

  “And so do I.”

  “He likes a bet.”

  Mad Aggie shrieked. “Along with half o’ Scotland. The non-church-going half, that is. Ye’ll have to dae better than that. Or ye can turn yer bike round and get yer arse back down the hill. Well?”

  He searched for something to say. “Sheila McKechnie just had twins.”

  “Och, really?” She lowered the skillet. “Lads or lassies?”

  “One of each.”

  “Ye’d better come in, then.”

  He entered her cottage and was immediately set upon by four hens and one boisterous rooster. The air in the one-room was choked with the smell of warm fowl and chicken-shit, but he could detect something else as well. Urine. Whether human or otherwise he dared not guess. Wings flapped around him, feathers fluttered in the air. Mad Aggie began toasting oatcakes on the open fire, and as each one was done, she flung it wildly on to the bed where it lay singeing the wool of her coverlet. It worried her none, for she paid him the money she owed and ordered a new blanket for his next visit. As he reached for the door handle, she clawed at his shoulder.