Fowlers End

by Gerald Kersh

  Then, as I subsequently learned, he called Daniels Copper Ltd., in Chicken Lane, Threadneedle Street, and said something like what follows:

  “Chickens? Par’me. Daniels Copper Limited? ... Then this is Sam Yudenow. Call me a pal and I’m your pal. Call me a hog and I can turn out to be a proper pig. Let’s get down to cases. The time has come but it’s so. Forgi’me, please?”

  A voice replied, “This is Payne, Payne, Payne, Payne, Rackham, Rackham and Payne. To what are you referring, sir?”

  Somewhat out of countenance, Sam Yudenow said, “Daniels Copper Limited, if you don’t mind.”

  “We are their attorneys. Yes?”

  “Well, look. It works out like this: as it ‘appens, as a matter o’ fact, between us, to tell you the truth, I own the ‘Ippodrome in Ullage. Not to tell you a lie, between friends, I could do miv a few lots o’ land. Believe me, it grips me right in the bowels. All these poor people, I can’t stand it. I’m sorry, Mr. Bowel, I can’t stand it—I’m a funny man— it gives me a pain. Ever ‘ad it? Asubtraction in the arse, and digestion goes backwards. It makes acid. Acid I don’t want; I got it already. Later, Gord knows what, to take the Name in vain.... So what’s giving miv Daniels Copper? So what are they digging for? How comes copper rahnd Ullage? Answer me only this.”

  The lawyer replied, “I understand, sir, that Daniels Copper is a concern with wide interests. I am not at liberty to speak of them at present.”

  “Look, I’m not trying to take a liberty. Wide interests: so if I’m interested? And believe me, Sam Yudenow is wide. Oh, believe me! Wide as a carpet. They used to call me ‘Sam Wide’ in Billingsgate. You know that, you must know that, mustn’t you? And believe me, I’m open—wide open—I gape like ... Uxcuse me. To conclude, let me continue. A yes or a no; to who belongs lots in Ullage?”

  The lawyer said, “Mr. Yudenow, you are asking for information which I am at present not at liberty to divulge—”

  “Divulge!” cried Sam Yudenow.

  “I’m sorry I can’t do that but—”

  “Never mind the ‘sorry,’ give me the ‘but’!”

  Then the solicitor told Sam Yudenow that, as far as he knew, this land around Ullage was, according to his information, being bought (always provided his information were correct) by some firm, as he was informed, of motorcar manufacturers who proposed to deal with it accordingly. “Accordingly miv what?” shouted Sam Yudenow, and the lawyer replied, “Accordingly.”

  Sam Yudenow said, “What is a copper company doing miv Ullage?”

  The solicitor said gravely, “I have not the faintest idea. But, as you know, there are ramifications.”

  Sam Yudenow muttered, “Ramifications. Hm! So that’s what they’re up to. So long as we know. I don’t want no ramifications. Piss-hounds!”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. Let’s get together, just you and me.”

  “I’m free tomorrow, if you wish to consult me.”

  “Not for the world! All I want to do is consult you and praps buy you a little smoked salmon in Bootle’s. Who is trying to insult you? Gord forbid. All I want is to make a deal, so you want to kick up a row? A person wants a few lots in Ullage, so you should be civil.... Civil, be! You get it? The angle is, you ough’ to be civil. Not to be a wild Indian miv stomach’awks, only civil. Go on, scowp me. Better not. I don’t care if you’re Norman Birkett and Marshall Hall, I’ll prove to you there’s a law in this land! So where do you think you are? Russia? The Czar’s dead, believe me. I read it in the newspapers. And the Cossacks are unhanded. Who do you think you are?” Sam Yudenow shrieked, carried away,” the Preobrazhensky Regiment, or what? Give me a yes or a no. Get off the line before I cut you off. Wait a minute, I’ll cut you off. Bollocks to you, pisspot!” Then he sang, “Bollocks, and the same to you— Bollocks, they make a bloody fine stew ... Got it? Only be civil. Is this too much to ask? I want a few lots rahnd Ullage. So what are you in business for? ... Confidentially, between us, I am an untimate friend o’ the Lord Mayor London. We went to school together and we are like brothers.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Aha! If I told you, you would be as wise as I am. Look it up in the dictionary, in the dictionary look it up. I gave ‘im ‘is first cat, and if you don’t believe me ring ‘im up and ask ‘im. But uxcuse me, I get carried away. A civil question demands a civil answer. My middle name is Show Biz. I am proprietor of all sorts o’ property all over the place, let alone Ullage, where I own the skating rink—beg pardon, the ‘Ippodrome—and I am a freeholder, a lease holder, a copyholder, et cetera. Also, a British subject, which entitles me to liberty o’ conscience. So say something, or has the cat got your tongue?”

  “Well, I must, as you understand, pass the matter on to Daniels Copper, Mr.... What did you say your name was? Biz?”

  “Yudenow!”

  “That is why I asked you,” the solicitor said; so Sam Yudenow spelled it out, adding, “Listen. I’m a rich man and I can make it worth your while. I want a few lots in Ullage. I’ll retain you. I’m a poor man, but you know. A fiddle ‘ere, a fiddle there. Look at Booligan. Believe me, I can put my ‘and in my pocket. What comes out, that all depends. So is it so much to ask, a few lots in that smomp at Ullage? Ullage! Where is Ullage? What is Ullage? What do you think, I’m going to dig for copper there? Ullage? ... No jokes, a few lots, how much?”

  “I must consult my principals.”

  “Mr. Ullage, listen to me: in business you don’t want no principles. Ethics, by all means. Morals, yes. Principles, no. They lead you to the work ‘ouse. If we are to do business, let me un-stipulate—no principles?’

  “Mr. Yudenow, you must understand that I am only a servant of the company, Daniels Copper Limited.”

  “I’d make it worth your while,” Sam Yudenow insinuated.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Yudenow, but that’s quite out of the question.”

  “Servant o’ the company—believe me, I know servants. I got one. She comes from Dublin, whereas evidently they don’t ‘ave laventories, if you will uxcuse the expression. So she leaves a turd shaped like a triangle, like Egypt—a veritable pyramid—and runs away miv an Irish Guardsman who deserted, yet. Miv my best overcoat. What did ‘e want to do miv it, I ask you? Make a weskit of it? Go argue miv servants.... But uxcuse me, Mr. Ullage, W comes the servant problem? Uxcuse me, please, I ask only to be informed. That’s Gveek, for your information. Gveeks! Your worst enemies, believe me, Mr. Thingummybob, should ‘ave Gveeks! I ‘ad one, and what a layabout ‘e turned out to be! Let alone never mind. So this Gveek—the other one, thank Gord, poisoned ‘imself miv ‘emlock. In a bowl, yet—never trust a Gveek miv a bowl. And sex. ‘Is last words—I got it out of a magazine—was. ‘I owe a cock to Esculapenheim.’ ... You take me off my point. A few lots, Mr. Cox?”

  The lawyer said, “I’m afraid you don’t grasp the situation, Mr. Yudenow. You own, you say, the Ullage Hippodrome? Then I dare say you have heard that the Anglo-American Automobile Associates—in other words, A.A.A.A.—have bought up considerable properties in Ullage. I have it on the authority of a respected, client that the railway is going to run a branch line out there. Solely for the purposes of transport, sir, solely for the purposes of transport. Daniels Copper has considerable interests in Ullage, as I have indicated. I don’t imagine they propose to mine for copper, but there is such a thing as building speculation—what our transatlantic cousins call ‘real estate.’ It is quite romantic, really. What was once a village will become a thriving industrial town. Something like San Francisco on a smaller scale. When you ask for a lot in Ullage at present, you are asking—if you will pardon the pun—for quite a lot.”

  “Are you in business or are you not? Give me a simple ‘yes.’”

  “Daniels Copper has holdings, some of which might be available. Let me see, just a moment; why, yes, I believe there is some land on the southeast, unless I am very much mistaken. And bless my soul—it must be an appalling oversight on the part
of A.A.A.A.—according to the map there would appear to be a piece of frontage. But this seems too good to be true: I can’t see a concern like A.A.A.A. leaving vacant frontage where they are bound to build.”

  Philosophically, Sam Yudenow shrugged into the telephone and said, “So we all make mistakes. I ain’t much to look at, but I’m funny that way myself. Did you ever see a picture called Russian Duel?Acouple loafers put one bullet in a gun and spin the barrel. In turn (they toss a sixpence for who goes first) each one puts the muzzle to ‘is head and pulls the trigger. The villain goes first. Click!—and the glycerin is dropping down ‘is face. Then the ‘ero goes next. Click!—’e makes miv a mysterious smile. Believe me, now the villain ‘as got a proper sweat on, trembling like an aspirin. Like Booligan. Click!—and gives the gun back to the ‘ero. Click!—so there’s only one bullet left; who’s got to get it? The villain. So ‘e goes yellow, puts the gun down and gives up the girl. Later, the ‘ero opens ‘is hand and there’s the bullet. It was never in the gun. Believe me, I’m like that. I’ll gamble my life away. So what is Daniels Copper asking for lots—because, in any case, I can’t afford it? Only I’m curious. The Covered Wagon spirit I got; I’m a pioneer myself. Well?”

  Mr. Payne said, “It is difficult to make head or tail of you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘ead or tail? You think you can toss me like a coin? Tails! A dog am I? I ask a civil question. You give me tails. Forever hold your peace—speak up!”

  Mr. Payne recounted this telephone conversation later, with a kind of mystified amazement. He said that there was something about Yudenow that made one want him to go on and on. He added that he wished he could write books. Anyway, Yudenow came to the office and did an under-the-counter deal in landed property around Ullage. He got half the housing project on the northwest, and on the southeast a third of the factory frontage (Mr. Payne would not let him have more) for seven thousand pounds. He must have been extraordinarily voluble, because even Mr. Payne, with his snaky memory, could not recall the whole of the conversation, or discussion, which lasted three and a half hours by the clock. We wouldn’t take a check; the deal had to be settled by banker’s draft, in return for which the solicitor drew up a deed of unbelievable magnitude. With the name of Daniels Copper fixed firmly in his head, Sam Yudenow wanted mineral rights, these to include oil. He also claimed the right to open a clay-pipe factory, a smithy, and a fried-fish shop. He slipped in a clause that entitled him to set up a brickyard and a lime kiln. He was leaving nothing to chance.

  He got back to the Pantheon at about six in the evening, just when I was undertaking what is to me the almost impossible task of throwing out an old lady. She was considerably less than sober, so I ran over to the Load of Mischief, bought a glass of “Red Lizzie,” and lured her with it. It must have looked ridiculous—me walking backward, holding this glass, and making caressing noises like squeaky kisses such as you make to a cat; she following, hypnotized. Having got her into the street, I gave her the glass, which she drained at a gulp, then fell on my neck and cried.

  Sam Yudenow would choose this moment to arrive in his big Renault. He nodded in a most unpleasant way and said, “The place for this is the genevator room. Do anything, only I don’t want a bad name.” He looked pale but happy.

  Copper Baldwin came down from the projection room: one of the machines had started to run backward. “Poxy Sam,” he said, “what ‘ave you been up to?”

  “Up to what? Up to where? Who, me?” said Sam Yudenow.

  “You been doing something wicked,” said Copper Baldwin.

  “Don’t make me laugh, please, I got a cvacked lip. It pains. But listen, I want your advice, yours too, Laveridge. For a name for a dance ‘all, what’s the matter miv the ‘Covered Wagon’? Temporary, under a tent, like a covered wagon. Shafts—’Acker the Breaker could find me old telegraph poles; ‘orses ‘e’s got from the roundabouts. A good name, the ‘Covered Wagon,’no? I’m thinking o’starting a little company: Yudenow Developments Limited. I’m only pissballing and I don’t want you should give it another thought. Only kind o’ think it over, sort o’ style.... ‘Ow’s the house?”

  “About five hundred and fifty,” I said.

  Instead of urging me to rush into the street and drag in a few more, to my astonishment he said, “Nicely, nicely.”

  Just then there came the reverberation of a shocking explosion. It shook the Pantheon. The projectionist had a heart attack and had to be smacked in the face while young Headlong took over—and what that boy did with Sinners Beware! should not happen to a dog. He ran it too fast, he ran it too slow; it was all one to him if two frames appeared at once on the screen; and, having developed a weakness for the woman who shows one of her legs when the soldier takes his belt off, he managed to rerun that reel for the rest of the night. Nobody noticed; they thought she must be somebody else.

  Sam Yudenow said, “Did you ‘ear that ‘orrible bang?”

  Copper Baldwin said, “Didn’t you?” “Don’t answer a question miv a question! Was it Gveeks?”

  “Don’t talk like a berk. Where ‘ave you been all your life? That’s dynamite; they must be blasting for foundations round Ullage.”

  Impulsively, Sam Yudenow said, “By me this is music!”

  “Why, what’s Ullage to you?”

  “It means so little to me I’m delighted it should be blasted,” said Sam Yudenow.

  Later Copper Baldwin took a walk up the road, and came back laughing. As soon as he caught his breath, he said to me, “Ever ‘ear about Deucalion? Aquarius? The Water Carrier? Stone me blind, I never trusted Greek cooking. That bloody stuff went orf, and there ain’t a window left in Ullage. Nor a square inch uncovered with mud. The ‘Ippodrome ‘as got a crack in it you could lay three fingers in. No casualties, except one old woman—but they’ll ‘ave to wipe ‘er orf before they can tell. The cream o’ this jest, cocko, is that this ‘ere stuff blasted down to an underground spring, and Ullage is knee-deep, more or less. I never laughed so much since Father died. Fancy a bit o’ gin? This calls for a celebration. Laugh? You would ‘ave pee’d yourself. The War Memorial fell onto the roof o’ the chapel, which, unfortunately, was empty at the time. Nothing left but a stump. Oh, it’s lovely. This almost makes me believe in Gawd. ‘Ave a bit o’ gin, do ‘ave a bit o’ gin!”

  I asked, “What’s so funny?”

  He said, “Sam Yudenow bought the ‘Ippodrome orf Johnny Wills, and the insurance policy ain’t been renewed. What is more, I got news for you: I called that man in Chicken Lane. That bastard Yudenow nipped up to the City and bought a portion of our ‘oldings in Ullage for seven thousand quid. ‘Ow d’you like that?”

  I said, “I never was very good at figures, Copper. Let’s work out the percentages. Seven hundred produces seven thousand—”

  “Ah, money breeds money.”

  I said, “I don’t believe in money. What I was trying to work out was the percentage due.”

  “I’m against vested interests myself,” said Copper Baldwin, “therefore, I say, bugger off and give the bastards an object lesson in the capitalist system. Thirty-five hundred for you, thirty-five hundred for me, and Bob’s your uncle. What say?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” I said. “My mother is an investor, a lady in whom I am interested is an investor ... Damn it all, Copper, let us be equitable. I hate greed—”

  “But we chewed Sam’s bollocks off, didn’t we?”

  “Keep them, and much good may they do you,” I said. “But what this takes is an accountant. Take it first and last, Copper: everybody gets it on a percentage basis, and quick! My mother first of all, then Miss Whistler. Deduct Mr. Cruikback’s percentage—”

  “I love that man,” said Copper Baldwin. “I’d like to make ‘im managing director. Three and a half per cent? I’m surprised at you. Mr. Cruikback? Three and a half per cent? Now look ‘e gets two hundred smackers—let ‘im plow it back and give ‘im ten per cent. Where’s your bloody acumen?”

  “Th
is seven thousand pounds is to be divided among the shareholders in this company,” I said, “of which you are the least.”

  “It ain’t business,” said Copper Baldwin, in protest.

  “And a good job too,” said I. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve got ten times your investment. For goodness’ sake, what more do you want? And I may tell you,” I added severely, “there’s not many jobbing mechanics in times like these that can put their hands on a couple of hundred pounds. Better be grateful.”

  “Grateful. To this I ‘ave one word to say,” said Copper Baldwin; and he moistened his lips, filled his lungs, and blew out a disgusting noise. “For beer money, et cetera, I am compelled to rely on extracurricular activities. Jesus, I want to show you the coast of Cuba coming up like a thread o’ fog! Let alone the porpoises. No, really and truly, they play. I caught one once by accident, and you’d be surprised the difficulty I ‘ad trying to chuck ‘im back. ‘E went to chew my foot orf, but that was only a love bite. Fixed ‘im with a fire ax and served ‘im for a stew off Venezuela. Surprising amount o’ oil. But there was a Nicaraguan boy liked the liver. Man’s best friend is the porpoise—I cut ‘is jaws out, dried them out, and mounted them on a board. Sold ‘em for a pound. What about this drink? I’ll grant you your principles, so come on now!”

  So we went to the Load of Mischief. Copper Baldwin was in such a state of exaltation that he could not stand on one foot for more than a few seconds at a time. He shouted, “Drinks on me!” And, in the murmurous, respectful half-silence that followed—drunk with triumph—he said, “Anybody mind if I oblige with a little song?”

  Nobody minded. Clearing his face of all traces of cheerfulness and emptying his glass, he turned up an imaginary collar and proceeded to sing. But before he did so he warned the company: “Okay. This’ll cheer you up, you grizzling lot o’ miseries. Bleeding juveniles. You never ‘eard the like o’ this before, and you’ll never ‘ear the like o’ this again, you bastards, you!”