by Colin Murray
The Antelope was always a bit subdued on a Sunday night. Even Mickey Morgan had forsaken the place, presumably for the delights of domestic bliss, so we had a chance to talk.
I asked Viv about her time with the Mountjoys, but she wasn’t very forthcoming. She just said she’d had enough by her teens and the war had offered her a chance to escape and get out. Her especial dislike was reserved for the old boy, her grandfather, which made me think. She shuddered slightly at the thought of him and made a face and a sound that suggested she was smelling or eating something very unpleasant.
It turned out that she’d picked her new name by putting together the Christian names of her two favourite film stars, who just happened to be married to each other, the glamorous Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier. She got the idea because someone had once told her she looked like Vivien Leigh in Waterloo Bridge. Maybe she had when she was thirteen, but she didn’t much now. She had told us that with a big laugh and an, ‘Imagine!’, so I guess she knew she was far too blowsy and worn to be mistaken for the elegant and delicate Miss Leigh these days.
She was proving to be a resilient woman, though, and was obviously getting over her ordeal at the hands of the Mountjoys. She’d even suggested that there was a couple at the church who might be able to put her up for a few days. But I had what I thought was a better idea.
Anyway, we’d all, even Jerry, been tucked up in bed by half past ten, which in my case had been essential. I was knackered.
I awoke with a slightly stiff neck but surprisingly refreshed at about seven. The horse and cart from Heywood’s Dairy was plodding past, crates clinking, Bob Heywood whistling and dumping bottles noisily on door steps. It was difficult to believe that I usually slept through all that, but apparently I did.
I got up, dressed and then tiptoed past a still slumbering Viv to the scullery where I splashed some water over my face and boiled up a kettle in order to shave and make some tea. The soft plop from the gas oven as I lit the ring was enough to wake her, and she joined me in the scullery, wearing my shirt and not a lot, if anything, else and yawning mightily.
‘Morning,’ she said.
‘Morning,’ I mumbled, trying not to stare at her slim, lean legs. ‘Tea?’
‘Please,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ I said, remembering that I didn’t have any milk. ‘Costello’s, the café over the road, is open. We can go there.’
‘I’m parched,’ she said.
‘Sorry, no milk,’ I said. ‘Don’t know why, but I haven’t found much time for visits to the Co-op over the last few days.’
‘I heard a milkman just now,’ she said.
And so she had.
I didn’t hang about and raced off down the stairs and out of the front door.
It wasn’t a bad morning. A bit chilly, but there was no hint of rain in the high cloud. A couple of buses, full of bleary-eyed factory workers, trundled past, a solitary, old black Ford struggled around the corner into Lea Bridge Road, and four or five cyclists glided along, but I couldn’t see any sign – apart from a few steaming lumps in the middle of the road and pints of milk, little silver tops winking at me in the early morning light, left on steps outside the shops – of Bob Heywood or his old nag. It did cross my mind to ‘borrow’ a pint from the boot and shoe repairer’s three doors down, but the action could have been misconstrued by someone passing.
No, it was going to have to be Costello’s.
I went back in and banged on the door that led off the corridor into Jerry’s shop. For some reason, I borrowed Billy Cotton’s catchphrase. And that was odd because I never listen to the show. It’s not my kind of music.
‘Wakey-waakey,’ I yelled. ‘We’re off to the caff. You coming?’
There was a muffled murmur from inside, and then Jerry opened the door. He, too, was already up and about. ‘On my way, my friend,’ he said. ‘I believe you mentioned that you were buying.’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Then you will find me a valiant trencher man,’ he said. ‘I’ll grab us a table.’ And he was off and across the road before I was up the stairs.
Viv had pulled on most of her clothes by the time I got back, and she was buttoning my old shirt. Without any make-up she looked surprisingly vulnerable. She even looked a bit younger.
‘You got anything else I can wear on top?’ she said. ‘It’s probably a bit cold out there.’
I rummaged around in my extensive wardrobe and found an old grey pullover that I don’t think I’d ever worn. It had been, of all things, a Christmas present from Bernie Rosen’s Aunt Ruth, who I’d stayed with for a few winter months when I got back after the war. I have to say that it looked better on Viv Laurence that it would have done on me.
The kettle had boiled, and I shaved very quickly while Viv went out into the backyard to ‘use the facilities’.
We were only a few minutes behind Jerry, but, even so, he was on his second cup of coffee and the always lugubrious Enzo (I don’t know where the idea that all Italians are of a sunny disposition comes from) was busy complaining that we had come at his busiest time.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said. ‘You showing off to your lady friend? You never come in before half eight. Why you gotta come now when I’m rushed off my feet?’
It was true that the place was busier than I’ve usually seen it, but all that meant was that there were two weary-looking workers with leathery faces sitting at one table drinking mugs of tea and a ruddy-faced woman who worked in the Co-op around the corner tucking into beans on toast.
‘Sorry, Enzo,’ I said, ‘but I’m making an early start this morning. Things to do.’
He took our order and, still grumbling, went off to attend to his sizzling frying pans and grill and pay homage to the coffee machine that was wheezing away like an old man with TB.
He must have felt he was busy because he wasn’t fiddling with the dial of his wireless as he usually did. In fact, the wireless wasn’t even on. He did, though, manage to find time to light a cigarette and take a few puffs on it before breaking our eggs into a pan.
I was sipping my third cup of tea, and Viv and Jerry were mopping up the last of their eggs with fried bread when I glanced out of the steamed-up window next to me.
Church Road was quite busy now with workers streaming off to the London Electrical Wire Company and the Caribonum factory and school kids dawdling along, bouncing balls and yelling at each other. Two of them even stopped to play conkers. That didn’t last long. One skinny, crafty-looking boy obviously had a grizzled old fighter on the end of his string. Two hits and the shiny brown sphere dangling from the other boy’s hand shattered.
But, even if the street had been even more crowded, I would still have noticed the red and white Ford Consul sliding to a halt fifteen yards away by the bus stop. Another car stopped behind. It was black and looked new. It could have been one of the recent Austin Cambridges, but I couldn’t see it properly.
George and his big mate got out of the Consul and stood on the pavement for a few seconds, and then the doors of the big black car opened and Malcolm Booth and his mate, Stanley, got out. All four of them slowly crossed the road – Malcolm a bit more slowly than the others. His ankle was obviously still troubling him.
Jerry pushed back his chair. ‘Better get off,’ he said. ‘Post’ll be here soon.’
‘Have another cup of coffee,’ I said.
‘No, thanks,’ he said.
‘I think you should,’ I said and waved to Enzo.
I glanced out of the window again. The four big men were standing outside the entrance to the record shop now. George was banging on the door.
Enzo came over to our table. ‘Who’s that, over at your place?’ he said.
‘No one we want to see,’ I said. ‘Can we have some more coffee and tea, Enzo, please?’
Viv nervously cadged a fag from Enzo. Jerry just looked worried.
‘Who is that, Tony?’ Jerry said.
‘They’r
e looking for me,’ Viv said.
‘And it wouldn’t be a good idea if they found her,’ I said. ‘We’ll just stay here until they’ve gone.’
‘And if they decide to come in here for a cuppa while they wait?’ Jerry said.
‘They won’t,’ I said.
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Enzo’s coffee,’ I said.
‘Come on, the coffee’s not that bad. Its notoriety can’t have spread further than Walthamstow.’
He was right, of course. We couldn’t risk it.
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to go and talk to them.’
‘Me!’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. You’re the one they’re after.’
‘Exactly, Jerry,’ I said. ‘You don’t know anything. You’re a complete innocent. Just tell them you haven’t seen me since Saturday morning and you don’t know anything about me or what I get up to.’
‘And if they don’t believe me?’
‘Jerry, trust me. They’ll believe you. You’ve got an honest face.’ I smiled at him sweetly. ‘And, Jerry, come back as soon as they’ve gone.’
He let out an exasperated sigh and stood up. ‘All right, but I’m not risking my membership of the Holy Church of the Latter Day Cowards for you,’ he said and moved to the doorway just as Enzo brought his coffee.
‘He don’t want this?’ said Enzo.
‘He’ll be back for it in a minute,’ I said.
Enzo shrugged and plonked the cup down. Between them, the shrug and the plonk had managed to tip most of the coffee into the saucer. Enzo licked some off his thumb and then went back to the counter, turned his attention to the wireless, to his third cigarette since I’d come in and the Daily Mirror that he’d been leafing through. The paper just happened to have a huge headline on its front page about a double murder in Soho.
I watched Jerry talking to the blokes over the road and wasn’t too surprised when he opened the door that led to my flat and they all trooped in. As they did, something occurred to me.
‘What did you do with your blouse?’ I said to Viv who was smoking furiously. ‘The torn one.’
‘Oh, it was ruined,’ she said. ‘I left it.’
‘Where?’
‘I can’t remember. In your room somewhere.’
I closed my eyes and tried to visualize my room, but I couldn’t remember seeing the blouse anywhere. I could picture the book Ghislaine had sent me, lying by the bed, and Jerry’s cat, the hefty and formidable Fluffy, had spread himself out next to it. But I couldn’t see that damned blouse. Maybe George and Co. wouldn’t either. Well, I could hope.
Then, while I stared through the window of Enzo’s dark little café, the low, reassuring murmur of the wireless in the background, my stomach roiling with tea and tension, I had one of those rare moments of clarity in my chaotic life. I realized that it didn’t matter whether they found it or not. They weren’t looking for it. They weren’t interested in Viv, except as a means to an end. And they weren’t much interested in me, although I did have the distinct impression that Malcolm bore me a grudge for the bashed ankle and that George just bore me a grudge. They really were only after the ‘goods’ that had gone missing – Ricky’s and Mr Fitz’s. They thought Viv knew where they were, and they thought I knew where they could find her.
Well, they were right on one score.
And then I had another blinding flash of insight. I think the Bible calls them epiphanies. For some reason, recalling the details of my room had me thinking back to Saturday night and Miss Summers’ dressing room. I hadn’t been at my best then and probably wasn’t thinking all that clearly, if at all.
Sometimes, things are every bit as simple as they seem.
Not that it mattered, but I also suddenly realized that I knew exactly where Viv’s blouse was, and I for one wasn’t going to risk disturbing Fluffy to recover it. Although, I did rather hope that one of the thugs rummaging through my things would. Fluffy is not a winsome, charming cat.
‘Right,’ I said decisively to Viv, because I suddenly had a plan of action, ‘I’m going to find you somewhere to hide while I sort a few things out. Enzo must have a broom cupboard. With any luck, it’ll only be for a few minutes and then I’ll find you somewhere a bit more comfortable.’
She looked worried but stubbed out her cigarette and stood up.
Enzo wasn’t happy but finally ushered her into a large storage room out the back, with strict instructions that she wasn’t to muck about with anything. I couldn’t imagine what he thought she was going to do with his priceless collection of tins of beans, but I promised him faithfully she wouldn’t touch them. He didn’t look convinced.
I stood by the door of the café for a moment. They’d been in my flat for nearly five minutes and that was more than long enough to ascertain that, as Jerry had no doubt told them, I really wasn’t there. Even if they were feeling vindictive – which that might be – they’d also had plenty of time to break every one of my treasured possessions. All three of them.
I couldn’t think what they had to gain by duffing Jerry up, but I was beginning to think they might have decided to do it out of straightforward badness when Malcolm and Stanley slammed the door behind them and strode – and in Malcolm’s case limped – across the road to their car. A few seconds later, they pulled out in front of a bus, which gave full voice to its objections with a loud and strident blast of its horn, and drove off.
Almost immediately, George and his mate came out of the flat. I stepped out of the café and, hidden by the bus, waited for them to appear.
I’d been expecting them to go around behind the bus, but they dashed in front of it and saw me immediately. George was on me in seconds. He grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket and slammed me into the wall of the Gaumont cinema by the bus stop and hit me once in the stomach. I doubled over but he held me up. His mate stood behind him, ready to step in if he was needed. That didn’t look likely in the immediate future.
‘Where is she?’ George said very quietly. ‘Tell me or you’ll really take a pasting.’
I sucked in air and coughed. George had hit people before. He was quite good at it.
‘George,’ I finally managed to squeak out, ‘I know you don’t like me, and I don’t doubt your ability to work me over.’ I nodded at his mate. ‘Particularly with help.’
He smiled. ‘I don’t need no help,’ he said.
‘All the same,’ I said, ‘it might be worth you listening to what I have to say.’
He relaxed his grip on my jacket slightly, but he didn’t step back. I took that as encouragement to speak.
‘I know what you’re looking for, and I think I know where it might be. You let me go, and I’ll see if I can’t get it to Mr Fitzgerald by this evening.’
He tightened his grip on my lapels, pushed me back against the wall and bunched his fist. ‘Tell me where it is or I’ll really let you have it,’ he said.
‘Now, now, George,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to tell you.’
He waved his fist in front of my face.
‘George,’ I said, ‘once, during the war in occupied France, I spent two days in a cell, a guest of our Nazi friends. Do you know what I told them? Nothing. And that’s what I’ll be telling you. If you do beat me to a pulp, I won’t be able to follow up my guess and Ricky and Mr Fitzgerald will probably never see their stuff.’ I paused and looked at him. ‘I don’t know what Ricky’s like about his stuff, but I’m pretty sure that Mr Fitzgerald would much rather have his returned to him than see me plastered all over this wall.’
He still held on tight, and he really looked like he wanted to take another swing at me.
Then something else occurred to me. George wasn’t in the first flush of youth. He’d been around a bit, was probably more than ten years older than me.
‘How long you been with the Mountjoys, George?’ I said.
He was slightly confused. ‘Long time,’ he said.
‘Since before the war?’ I said.
He nodded warily, unsure what I was on about.
‘I’m sure you’re a very loyal servant to the Mountjoys. And I’m sure you look out for old Mr Mountjoy, same as you always have. I doubt you’d want him caused any trouble at his age. But trouble could be caused, George, if Viv – or Jean, as you probably know her – decides to tell her story to the authorities.’
‘No one would believe a tart,’ he said.
‘Maybe not, George, but I can think of a few briefs who’d love to give your old boss a difficult time. Interfering with young girls . . . It’s not pleasant, is it, George?’
I could see the doubt dancing all over his face, and, again, he relaxed his grip.
‘You vicious bastard,’ he said. ‘He’s an old man, and he’s not well. He’s not right in the head these days. You wouldn’t bring all that up again.’
‘I will if you make me,’ I said. He glared at me but I knew I had hit home. ‘Otherwise, it’s just between him and his conscience. Let me go to sort things out. And get Dave to keep Ricky on a tight leash on a permanent basis and it might all be forgotten. Otherwise . . .’
The look he gave me was not pleasant, but he let go and stepped back.
Loyalty’s a funny thing.
From what little she’d said, I suspected that Daphne’s daughter been used and abused by the old boy for years as a young girl. I’d just had confirmation. Clearly, George knew it to be true. But, in George’s eyes, I was the villain of the piece for having the rank bad taste to mention it.
I straightened my tie and smoothed down my lapels. ‘Thank you, George,’ I said. ‘Now, get off back to Dave and tell him this will all be sorted by tonight with any luck and Ricky’ll have to see Mr Fitz for any compensation.’
He offered me another ugly look and lumbered off to the car. The other guy, who hadn’t heard much of what had been said, looked very puzzled but followed him and climbed behind the wheel of the Consul. The car pulled out into the middle of the road and performed a U-turn at speed, surprising and scattering cyclists and pedestrians.
