by Ian Sansom
‘One hundred pounds?’
For me, and indeed for almost anyone except for the very wealthy and the very lucky, one hundred pounds in 1937 was an unimaginable amount. For me, working for Morley, it was almost a year’s wages.
‘That’s a deal then,’ said Delaney. ‘Gentlemen, would you show Mr Sefton the door?’
Gleason and MacDonald hauled me out of my chair and began to escort me – drag me, rather – to the door.
‘Oh, Mr Sefton, just before you go.’
Gleason and MacDonald paused and turned me around just as we had reached the top of the stairs. I could see Delaney smiling, framed in the doorway like a painting of some all-powerful potentate: hand-grained features, black-enamelled hair, ivory teeth, the very image of the inscrutable and implacable.
‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘I’d be interested to know: have you perhaps heard rumours about my methods for calling in debts? In those very very rare cases where people are not able or unwilling to make their payments?’
‘Yes, I have,’ I said.
‘Well’ – he chuckled – ‘the rumours, you will be delighted to hear, Mr Sefton, are not entirely true. Isn’t that right, boys?’ Gleason and MacDonald wholeheartedly agreed that not all the rumours were entirely true. ‘Not at all. Not at all at all at all. Just be careful going down the stairs now.’
The Windmill Theatre sign winked red at me, I stepped forward, Mickey Gleason pushed, and I began to fall.
CHAPTER 4
THE MUSIC WRITERS’ MUTUAL PUBLISHING CO.
NOTHING WAS BROKEN. That was the main thing. I was sure nothing was broken. I had managed to put out a hand to prevent myself from going head first but I had rolled and skidded and smashed my way down and was at the bottom of the stairs when I heard my Brigader friends rushing towards me. I’d curled into a foetal position to protect myself from the inevitable beating. I pressed myself into the cracked linoleum and waited for the first blow. Instead I felt a hand reach down to pull me up.
‘Sorry about this, mate, no hard feelings, eh?’ said Gleason.
‘Sure,’ I said, relieved, beginning to stand.
Which is when MacDonald took a well-aimed kick that knocked me back against the door.
‘Just pay up, you swine,’ said MacDonald, or words to that effect, with his characteristic Glaswegian charm. The rest of what he said, and exactly what he said is, alas, unrepeatable. Suffice it to say, I was left in no doubt that it would be in my best interests to pay my debt to Delaney without delay or hesitation.
When they finally pushed me out the door back onto Windmill Street – ‘See you in two weeks with your hundred pounds!’ called MacDonald with one final thump, as I staggered back – I noticed a tiny brass plaque indicating the name of Delaney’s offices, which I had never noticed before. The Rendezvous. Indeed it was.
I was breathing hard – panic and pain, a bad combination. I checked my ribs. I needed somewhere to rest. Somewhere to gather my thoughts and tend my wounds. Somewhere safe.
Some of the places I stayed in London in between assignments with Morley during our time together: Berwick Street, Dean Street, Greek Street, Wardour Street, in ‘hotels’, basements, flophouses and grand apartments, in mews, rows, streets, yards, courts, drives, circuses, both inside and out in the cold. There is nowhere, however, that I can particularly recommend: there is nowhere that remains the same. Time and money, tourism and sheer merchant greed have swallowed up the Soho that I knew and loved.
My most reliable stopover during those years, the place I dragged myself to when all seemed lost and there was nowhere else to go, was the offices of the Music Writers’ Mutual Publishing Company, on the fourth floor of 14 Denmark Street – long since disappeared but fondly remembered.
During my time at college – when I wasn’t drinking or suffering the after-effects of drinking – I had somehow become involved with the college Music Society. I was in a Gilbert and Sullivan and a couple of end-of-term concerts, and was a stalwart of the – often rather rowdy – revues, which is where I first met Ronald ‘Easy’ Pease, of the Pease family brewers of Batley. Ronald was studying music. He was a multi-instrumentalist who played the violin, the viola, the oboe, the flute, the French horn, the organ, the piano and – most proficiently and competently of all – the fool. Ron was a prankster, the sort of person who liked to enter a room and immediately set about causing mischief. He even looked like a puppy, with masses of dark unruly curls and big soulful eyes. He also had charm and money, which meant that he managed to escape rustication on a number of occasions for various incidents of drunkenness, vandalism, nudity and – after one memorable night out – for ‘fouling’ on the doorstep of the Master’s Lodge. (It probably helped that Ron’s father and grandfather had both attended the college before him and that the generously endowed Pease Building was an important addition to the college estate.)
After college, Ron had attempted for a while to pursue a conventional career as an orchestral musician, but because he was an independent-minded sort of a fellow, and because he was of considerable independent means, conventions could pretty much be disregarded and after a couple of years of professional musicianship, and a couple more of entirely reckless behaviour, he eventually settled into the unlikely profession of musical arranger and lyricist, a profession that guaranteed only an irregular income but which he supplemented by happily working as an agent for the old pawnbroker on Denmark Street who specialised in musical instruments. This brought him into contact with exactly the kind of people he most liked and admired: artists, jazz musicians, reprobates and thieves. Ron’s ‘career’ was indeed almost as precarious and unpredictable as my own, the only difference being that he could afford for a career to be precarious and unpredictable, since he was one day destined to inherit a fine house in Chelsea, a place in the country, an estate in Scotland and at least one-third of a brewery. He was utterly unreliable, incapable of taking anything even half seriously, and a very good friend, but most importantly, he was the sole proprietor of the Music Writers’ Mutual Publishing Company, and had kindly provided me with a key to his office on the fourth floor of 14 Denmark Street, which meant I had a place in Soho where I could occasionally sleep when necessity demanded.
Necessity now most definitely demanded.
It was fast approaching dawn. Denmark Street was deserted. I let myself into the building and went through the lobby towards the stairs. Ron’s lease prohibited using the office for anything but commercial purposes but if you paid your rent and didn’t cause too much trouble you could get away with almost anything. There were plenty of people in the building who were getting away with almost anything. You’d often find musicians sleeping in the lobby, and pimps, and the sort of people who come out at night and then mysteriously disappear during the day, or when their bills are due. The first floor was always the busiest: on the first floor there were a couple of rooms used by prostitutes, so there’d be people in and out – as it were – at all times. Ron used to go mad because the prostitutes would hang their underwear in the shared bathroom and make a terrible mess. (I was there in fact the night that Ron decided enough was enough and started throwing their underwear down into the street, tossing silk panties and brassieres onto passing pedestrians: you scored points if you managed to land a pair of knickers on an unsuspecting bowler. I was also there the night that Ron decided his office was too small, and since the office next door was empty we just broke right through, making a big hole in the wall: for a while we called ourselves the Hole in the Wall Gang, until we realised it wasn’t funny. The building was falling apart, even without our jolly japes. We were young, carefree and hellbent on destruction.)
The lobby was empty. Not even the girls were working. I was glad no one was around. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Many years later, during the course of our travels, Morley, Miriam and I had to contend with the sad case of a sweet-shop owner who had apparently fallen down her stairs and broken her neck. I had been lucky in my single-flight f
all from Delaney’s office – at worst I had maybe sprained an ankle – but I was bruised all over from my little chat with MacDonald and felt like I’d been mauled by whatever creature it is who is the most proficient at mauling: some lean, mean-featured pitiless Scots sort of creature, no doubt. I dragged myself up the stairs, let myself into Ron’s office and wearily settled myself into an armchair, clearing away piles of unanswered post and musical scores. Sleep came instantly.
CHAPTER 5
A TOPOGRAPHICAL CREMESCHNITTE
I WAS WOKEN what seemed like only moments later by the sound of a piano playing and the unmistakable smoky-sweet stench of Russian tea. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or if Ron had arrived early at the office. Knowing Ron, this seemed highly unlikely; and sure enough, when I half opened my eyes I saw that it was in fact Morley, Morley with his moustache and his grin, Morley seated at Ron’s piano, singing and strumming a song in a minor key.
Once I built a railroad, I made it run
Made it race against time
Once I built a railroad, now it’s done.
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Once I built a tower up to the sun
Brick and rivet and lime
Once I built a tower, now it’s done
Brother, can you spare a dime?
‘Ah, Sefton, good morning!’ He raised his cup of tea towards me in greeting.
I was about to reply when there came a horrible sharp dinning in my right ear: I wondered for a second if I had perhaps burst an eardrum after my fall down the stairs. I hadn’t: it was just Miriam, with a trumpet to her lips, attempting some sort of reveille.
‘How did you find me?’ I managed to ask them, through my confusion.
‘Really, Sefton. It doesn’t exactly take a Miss Marple to track your movements,’ said Miriam. She laid down the trumpet and was about to pick up a trombone.
‘I’ve got a bit of a headache, actually,’ I said.
‘I’m not surprised. You look dreadful. What on earth’s happened to you? Have you been in another fight?’ I saw that her eyes had alighted upon the xylophone in the corner.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I really do have a—’
‘Well, if you will insist on drinking and carousing, Sefton, what on earth do you expect?’
‘A most singular method of enjoying oneself, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ added Morley. ‘Not at all good for one. The old ivory dome.’ He tapped a finger to his head. ‘One has to take care of it, you know. I was at Madison Square Garden when Max Baer beat Primo Carnera – goodness me, that was a fight. Couldn’t you take up chess instead? Do you know Max Euwe?’
‘I can’t say I do,’ I said.
‘World champion? Defeated Alekhine?’
‘I must have missed that,’ I said.
‘Good dose of Eno’s Fruit Salts will see you right,’ said Morley.
‘Mmm,’ I agreed.
‘Or this,’ said Miriam, and she thrust her left wrist under my nose. ‘Have a sniff. It’s Schiaparelli’s Shocking. My new scent. Given to me by an admirer. Do you like it?’
I took a quick sniff. It smelled like all other perfume.
‘Well?’ said Miriam.
‘Very nice,’ I said, finally beginning to gain full consciousness.
Miriam and Morley certainly had a way of waking a man up in the morning.
Morley was opposite, at the piano, looking as spruce and as chipper as ever: bow tie, light tweeds, dazzling brogues. Miriam was doing her best to lounge on Ron Pease’s office chair – and her best was more than good enough. She somehow looked at this unearthly hour as she always looked: as though she had just finished a photo-shoot, perhaps for Vogue magazine, or some publicity stills for MGM. Her eye make-up was fashionably smudged, her white dress and matching jacket exquisite. She was also sporting some sort of barbaric necklace that looked as though it might recently have been wrenched from the neck of an aboriginal tribesperson, and then set with diamonds, the sort of necklace that one sometimes sees in the window of Asprey – the sort of necklace that might cost at least one hundred pounds or more.
I put the thought immediately from my mind.
‘Who let you in?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s a surprisingly busy little building, isn’t it?’ said Morley. ‘A charming young lady from the first floor escorted us up. I think she said her name was Desiree?’
‘I think you’ll find her name is probably not Desiree,’ said Miriam, looking knowingly at me.
‘Sorry?’ said Morley.
‘“That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain – At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark.”’
‘Hamlet?’ said Morley. ‘I can’t see the relevance, my dear.’
‘Denmark. Street,’ said Miriam.
‘Anyway,’ I said.
‘Yes, quite,’ said Morley. ‘Anyway. No time to lose, eh, Sefton? Another book to write.’
‘Sorry, did we finish the last one?’
‘Yes, we did,’ said Miriam.
‘Westmorland,’ said Morley. ‘Almost finished.’
‘In your absence,’ said Miriam.
‘Few tweaks, few i’s to dot and some t’s to cross, but we should have it done by the end of next week, Miriam, shouldn’t we?’
‘I would have thought so, Father, yes.’
‘So, ready for the printers and into the shops by the end of October, I would have thought. Excelsior!’
‘Right,’ I said.
Morley was publishing books almost faster than I could read them. I’d been in his employ since early September, working on The County Guides, and we’d already covered Norfolk, Devon and Westmorland. I’d travelled more widely in England within a month than I had in the previous twenty-six years of my pre-Morley existence.
‘You’ll be thrilled to hear, Sefton, that our next county is Essex,’ said Miriam.
‘Essex?’
‘That’s right,’ said Morley. ‘When you think of Essex, Sefton, what do you think of?’
‘When I think of Essex.’ When I think of Essex? It was not a place I had ever given a first – let alone a second – thought to. ‘When I think of Essex I think of …’ I thought of Willy Mann asking if I’d like to work for Mr Klein on some project.
‘Oysters!’ said Morley. ‘Correct! And cockles, sprats, whitebait, flounder, dab, plaice, sole, eels, halibut, turbot, brill—’
‘Yes, Father, we get the picture.’
‘Lobster, haddock, whiting, herring, pike, perch, chub—’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Gudgeon, roach, tench—’
‘Father!’
‘Winkles. But above all the Ostreaedulis! The English native!’
‘Sorry? The English native …?’
‘Oyster, Sefton! It is our privilege, sir, to have been invited as guests of honour to the annual Oyster Feast in Colchester!’
‘Very good,’ I said.
‘Colchester, ancient capital of England. Camulodunum – the fortress of Camulos! A place arguably more important historically than London itself. Home to the mighty Coel and his daughter Helena, not to mention the mighty Boadicea.’
‘And tell him, Father.’
‘Tell him what, Miriam?’
‘Father’s terribly excited, Sefton, because one of the fellow guests at the Oyster Feast is going to be—’
‘Oh yes!’ cried Morley. ‘The aviatrix!’
‘The who?’ I asked.
When I think of Essex
‘The aviatrix!’ repeated Morley.
‘By which he means the famous female aviator Amy Johnson.’
‘Really?’
‘Apparently, according to Father.’
‘Well, I very much look forward to—’
There came the sound of bells ringing outside. St-Giles-in-the-Fields. This was one of the disadvantages of staying at 14 Denmark Street: the close proximity to Christian bell-ringing, which could play havoc with a hangover, though frankly Morley and Miriam more than
matched the din. At the last stroke of the bell, Morley checked all his watches: the luminous wristwatch, the non-luminous wristwatch and his pocket-watch. He doubtless had an egg-timer concealed somewhere about his person, but there was no need to consult it on this occasion.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad. I’d better push on, though, chaps. I’ll see you there this evening?’
‘Father is travelling up by train,’ said Miriam. ‘We’re going to take the car. Now, I do expect to see you there on time, Father.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘There’s an exhibition at the Royal Albert Hall,’ explained Miriam. ‘Father’s very keen to go.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘By the Ford Motor Company,’ said Morley.
‘At the Royal Albert Hall?’ I said.
‘That’s right!’
‘You’re not allowed to buy any more motorcars, though, Father. Understand?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Morley.
‘We have quite enough already.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘If you were going to buy another we’d have to sell one.’
Morley was an absolute car fiend. He was an autoholic. To my knowledge he never parted with a car, any more than he ever parted with a book, or a typewriter.
‘You’re just looking, remember?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Morley. ‘I thought it was worth a visit,’ he explained to me. ‘Because we’re going to Essex. I tried to persuade Miriam that we should visit the Ford Works at Dagenham but she wasn’t keen.’
‘I thought Father going to an exhibition would be just as good. Don’t you agree, Sefton?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. I probably had as little desire as Miriam to visit a motor vehicle manufacturer – probably less.
‘They’re bringing all the men and machines from Dagenham anyway,’ said Morley. ‘So it’ll be as if we were actually witnessing them constructing an actual vehicle in an actual factory!’
