He ends up eating apples all day and drinking out of water fountains when he can. The evening continues much the same. Except that Mr Morton stands outside the Carousel when he comes back for what is usually the last pick up at around nine. The Elephant Emperor tells him to be careful when he picks up the next envelope from the Russian. ‘And be fast, very fast,’ Mr Morton continues. ‘Or very dead. It’s a big weekend. A lot of cups and races and scores and prize fights.’
Paul nods and tries to ask one of the men working in the bar for a glass of water.
Mr Morton puts his thumbs through his suspenders, then says, ‘Why am I telling you? You’re just an ape on a bike.’ Then he slaps Paul on the cheek with his bunched up gloves, and sends him out without a drink.
‘What do you think this is, some sort of sanatorium?’ Mr Morton shouts after him.
Paul looks out for policemen and their whistles. He speeds up whenever he can. Acts recklessly whenever he has to. He is sworn and shouted at twice a mile, but he feels himself getting faster too. Developing both his eyes and his legs.
Once Paul has been dismissed for the day he has milkshake after milkshake to restore his mind and body. Still hopeful he’ll spot her.
The manager has already made a note of him. Due to Paul’s size, his lack of proper spending and the sheer amount of time he has been sitting over his milkshakes. Most people drink them standing up, or at least less than one an hour.
Paul brings out a newspaper he bought. To look less conspicuous, not to read. Despite his best efforts an article on the possible creation of the Vatican city state catches his eye.
‘Hello Paul, how are you?’ Miriam suddenly says at his elbow, bringing over a shake for him.
‘I’m… me? I’m fine. You?’
‘Stanley,’ she says, looking over her shoulder at the manager who salutes like an old soldier, ‘tells me you’ve started coming here. Are you looking for me?’
‘No.’ He picks up the paper. ‘Yes.’ He folds it three times, an uncomfortable number. It keeps flipping up under his hand and he tries to subdue it to no effect. ‘Yes.’
She stands, hand on hip, and smiles a half-smile. ‘Well, here I am. I might get one of these milkshakes for myself. You seem to enjoy them so much. Mind if I join you?’
She walks over to the bar and laughs with Stanley, leaving Paul to blush. Stanley and Miriam chat behind his back. She orders a giant Knickerbocker Glory. She tries to pay but Stanley won’t hear of it.
‘How’s the leg?’ she asks, once she’s back with Paul.
‘Fine.’
‘And your eyes?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You’ve been spying all day, on the wrong girl.’
‘I’ve not been spying,’ Paul says, his face going beetroot red.
‘I’ve seen you. You have.’ Miriam smirks and winks at him.
‘I just wanted to see you I suppose,’ Paul says, feeling his embarrassed pulse settle a little. ‘It was a bit of a shock to see you at the Carousel,’ he says. He looks out the window, then turns to Miriam. She’s looking out the window, so he turns to the window and feels her turn away from the street scene to him. When he turns to face her, her eyes are back on the trams and carts outside.
‘Which one are you today?’ he asks.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Army nurse or Mata Hari?’
‘Paul,’ she turns in her seat to look right at him. Her eyes big, serious, lovely, ‘I’m always the same. I might have to wear different dresses sometimes, but I’m always the same.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’
‘You’re right,’ she says, smiling.
He tries not to think about the picture he has seen. He tries not to think about rushing out of Jack’s shop, chasing her mirage. He tries not to think about anything.
‘You want another?’ she asks after they have spent a while watching the ebb and flow of traffic.
‘No thanks. I don’t even like milkshake all that much.’
‘That’s dedication. Well then, I’ve got a couple of errands to run. You can come with me if you want, or you can sit here and read about the Vatican and drink milk.’
Paul leaves his bike with Stanley, who’s now much less suspicious, and they stroll down the street. An almost familiar distance between them, interrupted only by other pedestrians, by lamp posts, by horses and cars. Sometimes they bounce into each other, sometimes they are separated for a second or two.
‘How’s the cycling?’ she asks after a few blocks.
‘Which one do you mean? In my mind I do two kinds.’
‘I don’t know. Cycling and not falling over? That cycling.’
‘The velodrome racing is going quite well.’
‘In those round things?’ she says, drawing an ‘O’ in the air with her index finger.
‘Oval, but yes, I go round and round.’
‘And you race for a living?’
‘I race, but not yet for a living.’
They turn a corner and have to stop talking. They can’t hear over a team of raucous newspaper boys shouting about something Extra! Extra!
Paul doesn’t want to find out just yet what the disaster is; he’d rather continue talking. As more and more people come running to see what the papers say, he takes Miriam’s arm. Doesn’t think first, just takes it and leads her out of the growing crowd. She doesn’t thank him, but neither does she take her arm away. They turn another corner into a dormant street with no shops.
‘Can I watch you compete sometime?’
Paul’s heart surges. Pride, and nerves all congregating into a blush.
‘Of course. Have you been before?’
‘No.’ He realises inexperience doesn’t deter her.
‘Then it’s important to choose the right race. Somewhere you can see, be out of the rain, get a drink, that sort of thing,’ he says stretching. Proud of his knowledge.
‘Is there more than one velodrome?’
‘There are maybe six or eight in London, and then more in the neighbouring counties, you know, Essex. Then a few up north, Nottingham, Mansfield, Manchester so on. I’ve not been to any of those. A couple in Wales, a couple in Scotland,’ he says, a schoolboy’s confidence in his knowledge. He could have been talking about diplodocuses or the moons of Jupiter.
‘Well, then you’ll have to tell me which one I should come to,’ she smiles.
‘This weekend I’m in Preston Park, Brighton. It’s a cinder track, a real bastard,’ he says putting a hand to his mouth. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to…’
‘You think I’m offended by a little coarse language?’ she says, laughing and punching him playfully in the arm.
‘To be honest I don’t know what to think.’
‘Don’t think too much pretty boy. Back to the racing, and me seeing you,’ she says.
‘If you come off the bike at the Brighton track you end up with splinters everywhere and someone has to brush them out with hot soapy water.’
‘So make sure you stay on your bike this time.’
‘I certainly will. Wouldn’t want anyone but my personal nurse to care for me.’
‘Steady on,’ she warns him, index finger wagging, dimples showing.
‘So next week then, here in London is probably better. Or the week after? There’s always a good crowd at Kensal Rise, especially if the weather is nice. It’s on a Tuesday, at six.’
‘I’ll try to be there.’ She smiles and starts to say something, when she is interrupted by a boy with a flat cap pulled low delivering a note to her. She unfolds the note, nods, and gives the boy something from her purse. Paul can’t see if it’s another envelope or a coin.
‘I’m really sorry Paul, I have to go.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Paul says.
She nods and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. Looks up the street, asks him, ‘Do you want to meet tomorrow?’
He can’t help but let out a giggle. She looks at him, confused.
>
‘Sorry, that was just a bit of happiness that slipped out,’ he says, feeling his ears burn. He continues, saying, ‘It’d be nice to see you again. In daylight. Milkshake?’
‘No thank you. No, it’s a little bit of work I have to carry out. I could say that I could use a burly man like yourself, but I don’t. We manage quite well by ourselves, but it’d be nice to see you.’
‘Burly, is that the term these days?’ he says.
‘Athletic. Big. Whatever makes you happy.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing, just stand there.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ll show you tomorrow. Meet me here?’ she says and points to the coffeehouse.
‘Sure,’ he nods.
‘Six in the morning too early for you?’
‘No problem, I was born on a farm. I’m not as lazy as you townsfolk.’
The boy tugs at Miriam’s coat and she nods down to him.
‘It was nice to bump into you Paul. Thanks for spying on me.’
‘I wasn’t…’ he says.
‘See you tomorrow,’ she says and sails away. She picks the hat off the boy’s head and tousles his hair as they cross the road together.
Paul stands rooted until he can’t see her any more. Then he walks over to his bike and rides home. His legs are weightless and his lungs bottomless.
***
After a night of very little sleep, due to the kaleidoscope of butterflies in his stomach and an early rise to get across town in time, he gets to the coffeehouse. Miriam is standing chatting to Stanley when Paul arrives. She says hello and smiles, Stanley nods.
‘We’re late,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry, did we not say six?’ Paul says.
‘You’re not late, you’re bang on time. Other things have changed. I had hoped that we could go and have breakfast somewhere, but that’s now out of the question.’
‘Shame,’ Paul says.
‘Give Stanley here your bike,’ is all she says, and steps out into the street to hail a taxi. Then she says, ‘You never told me yesterday what the other kind of cycling you do is? The circus?’
Paul shrugs and says, ‘Well, in a way…’ He’s interrupted by a car horn. A High Lot Austin with a red-eyed driver stops by the kerb. Paul opens the door for Miriam.
‘Are you still happy to come with me?’ she asks.
He pretends to think long and hard, putting a finger on his lips and humming, then he cracks up in a smile. ‘Move over,’ he says, stepping into the taxi. ‘Will we be back by eight?’
‘I hope so.’
The streets are already full of horses and cars. It takes the driver a while to find a clear bit of road. Not that Paul minds. Miriam sits, hands in her lap, content, composed. Chiselled out of soft marble. Smelling like a pine forest and lemon peel all at once. Then suddenly she turns to him. Puts one gloved hand on his hand. She leaves it there for a heartbeat or two. Then pats his warm hand once, twice, three times. Looks at him and then to the window, the sun peeking through a gap in the buildings.
Once the city is streaming past he asks her where they are going.
‘To a pawnbroker in Angel,’ she says. ‘The man, a Mr Gullard, has a couple of things belonging to a friend of mine. My friend says she’s paid, but he’s not giving her the things, so I thought I’d go up there and have a chat. And you’re a big man, you’ll look good next to me.’ She puts a hand on his arm as they bounce over the cobblestones and tram tracks of Southwark Bridge. She lets it stay there.
‘What was that about the circus? Do you handle lions and tigers too?’ she asks once they’re underway.
‘In a way,’ he says.
‘Be honest with me,’ she says in a low voice.
He turns away from the Ferris wheel of the streets and says, ‘If you’re honest with me.’
‘I will,’ she says, quite seriously.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says once he notices her expression. ‘I can handle it,’ he smiles.
‘I believe you. Well, I believe you believe that. But that’s not true.’ She shakes her head a little.
As they come to a stop at a junction Paul looks out of the taxi into the window of a dressmaker. Tries to imagine Miriam in the place of one of the slim mannequins. One is wearing a green tunic past its knees and the other a golden dress and a feather boa. He knows Miriam would look great in anything. Then the image Mr Morton gave him in the envelope strikes like lightning and he has to look at his feet.
The taxi lurches forward and Paul takes a deep breath, to clear his head from the outfits, and of Miriam changing between them. He says, ‘I deliver messages for Mr Morton. That’s my circus act.’
‘I was afraid of that,’ she says.
‘It’s a new thing. Silas set it up for me.’
‘How do you know Silas?’
‘He’s my landlord. And he’s been helping me with the cycling, the racing, I mean.’
‘Good lord,’ she gasps.
‘Landlord,’ he says, with a straight face.
‘I heard you,’ she smiles. ‘At least you’re not in bed with him.’
‘No, I’ve got my own little place. It’s not much. Just a room really, I’m hoping to move soon. As soon as the velodrome racing starts to go a bit better.’
‘I thought you said you were good.’
‘I am. But sometimes others are faster. And sometimes I’m too tired from running Mr Morton’s messages. Or he wants me to do runs that clash with starting times at the velodrome.’
‘That seems a shame.’
‘I don’t know what it seems, but it pays my rent. Keeps me alive.’
‘And that’s a London rent,’ she offers. The weather and rent, safe ground of conversation.
‘I could have bought Lennoxtown several times over with the money I pay for rent here,’ he says.
She smiles at him. Her hand still on his arm. He’s not moved an inch since he got into the taxi. He fears putting her off, breaking the spell. Also because being in a taxi, in a car, is a pretty novel experience for him. The speed doesn’t impress him, he knows he could’ve covered the same distance much faster. But it makes the trip longer, and sitting ensconced in the big leather seat in the relative privacy of the taxi is very pleasant. Outside: people, trees, buildings, landmarks, smells, shouts, fights – the patchwork quilt of London.
‘What do you know about Silas?’ he asks once they gather speed again after a traffic jam on Grays Inn Road.
‘He’s Greek.’
‘And?’
‘He’s a sharp dresser, with a lot of friends. And though he’s polite enough he can be a dangerous man to cross,’ she says.
‘And Mr Morton is his boss?’ Paul asks.
‘In a way. But in a way Mr Morton is a lot of people’s boss,’ Miriam says sharply.
‘Yours?’
‘He’d like to think so,’ she says.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Don’t tell him I said that,’ she whispers.
‘I won’t. I make sure I speak to him as little as possible.’
‘Keep it that way.’
‘What do you do?’ he asks, still as immobile as a statue.
Miriam turns to him, smiles. ‘I help people in trouble. Like my friend who can’t seem to get her things back from the pawnbroker.’
‘That’s very charitable of you.’
‘You could say that. But it wouldn’t be right.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Here we are. Get out you big oaf. Watch out Mr Gullard, I’ve brought my own strongman.’
She pays the taxi and they get out. They walk down Goswell Street. She’s in no hurry, letting prams, horses, cars, bales of wares pass them by. Every so often Miriam asks him what time it is. When they get close to Clerkenwell Road and Old Street, she motions him into a narrow lane, Gee Street, and asks him to carry her jacket. She just stands there, eventually glancing down at her shoulders, at him, then nodding.
&nb
sp; He starts to help her out of it. She turns slowly in his hands. The jacket peels off, and she does a little twirl with one arm, her wrist bent, above her head. Then she reaches over to him and takes a long black feather with a golden top out of her inner pocket. This she puts in the brim of her hat. She looks him in the eye for a few seconds while he forgets how to breathe. A half-smile on her lips. Standing on her tiptoes she plants a kiss on his cheek. He spends the next few seconds trying to triangulate whether it was closer to his ear, or to his mouth, whether it was a friendly continental kiss like he’s seen in the movies, or a Judas kiss like he’s heard about elsewhere.
Waving him toward the exit of the lane she says, ‘Now be careful. These old boys hoarding other people’s stuff are usually pretty keen to keep as much money as they can, and they’re reluctant to deal with honest folk like me and you, so things sometimes get a little rough.’
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’
‘Just stick close to me.’
When they come out of the lane they turn right, and Paul gasps. The pawnbroker’s shop is huge. Half a block long, with wide windows properly lit up. There must be thousands of things on display, under a big sign reading Gullard & Mathews. But what catches Paul’s breath is the sight of a crowd of women in front of the shops, all with the same black and gold feather. Like Miriam they are all well dressed and lethal. The bells in St John’s toll for two and the women all nod in unison. Then, in one fluid motion, about half of them bring out cricket bats and set about smashing the windows, while the other half walks straight into the shop. They start carrying things out into the street. After a minute some of the cricketers discard their bats and start putting the contents of the smashed windows, trinkets, jewellery and gold, in jute sacks. One woman comes around the corner, apologising for being late, pushing an empty wheelbarrow which soon fills up with sacks. The whole thing is so unexpected that Paul stands stock still until Miriam gently closes his jaw with a gloved hand.
Devil Take the Hindmost Page 7
