London Belongs to Me

by Norman Collins

  And because there was no time to recruit an army – the only possible conscript that he could think of was Mr Josser, and he was clearly unequal to it at the moment – Uncle Henry decided to go into battle alone. He constructed himself two large posters covered with such phrases as MADE IN JAPAN MEANS MADE BY MURDER and FANCY GOODS DRENCHED IN BLOOD. The posters, 4 feet by 2 feet, six inches, were pasted on two large pieces of cardboard that had originally been lime juice advertisements, and Uncle Henry rigged up a kind of harness out of an old pair of braces. Then, armed like a sandwichman, he started off on his lonely patrol, wheeling his green bicycle beside him. At one time he had thought of cycling with the posters. But it was no use. The harness kept on getting tangled with the handle‐bars.

  Even walking, it wasn’t much of a success. Part of the trouble was that by the time Uncle Henry had shut up his green‐grocery establishment for the night, Oxford Street had shut up too. If any pro‐Japanese shopper had wanted to buy a shilling tin tray for sixpence he couldn’t have done so until nine o’clock next morning. And Uncle Henry was simply picketting a lot of drawn blinds. But the real trouble was that he didn’t cause half the sensation that he’d expected. Evening strollers simply took one look at him and then went on. It wasn’t until he had stood in the entrance to Bond Street Tube, distributing small handbills entitled merchants of death and a policeman had told him to move on because he was causing an obstruction, that Uncle Henry felt that he was even beginning to get anywhere. But even that wasn’t what he had really wanted. He didn’t want to cause obstructions: he wanted to create disturbances. Bricks through plate glass windows, fancy ashtrays and cheap celluloid toys trampled to bits on the pavement by an enraged democracy – that was the kind of thing Uncle Henry was after. And he was still as far away from it as ever.

  He had been on patrol for the better part of a week now, and he was growing sick of it. What particularly discouraged him was to find that this evening he was in competition with a larger and better organised attack on the public conscience. The Salvation Army, emerging from their advanced headquarters on the South side of Oxford Street, were filling the air with an uproar of religious martial music, and Uncle Henry was nowhere. Even the posters and banners of the rival force were larger and more striking. THE WAGES OF SIN ARE DEATH they proclaimed loudly and some of them were held aloft on velvet covered poles and had yellow silk tassels dangling beneath them.

  ‘Time to pack up,’ said Uncle Henry crossly as the big drum suddenly started up again close beside him. ‘Might as well go over and see how they’re getting on in Dulcimer Street.’

  2

  Bill and Doris were at Mr Josser’s bedside. But it was a very different sort of party from the midnight one, the pleurisy party. Mr Josser was sitting up in bed now. He’d shaved and, except for the fact that his hair was a bit long, he hardly looked an invalid at all. The only thing that gave him away – and that might have been simply his age – was the puckered chicken throat, seen through the open neck of his pyjamas.

  ‘It’s a funny thing,’ he was saying. ‘I feel all right. I look forward to my food. I’m sleeping properly. And I don’t cough any more. But I can’t stomach a pipe. After all this time I just don’t feel like it any more.’

  ‘You will do,’ Bill told him. ‘Get away for a bit, and you’ll be back to an ounce of shag a day.’

  ‘That pipe was at the root of it all,’ Mrs Josser interposed. ‘He’d just been poisoning himself with it for years.’

  She was used to having Bill in the house by now. And she was used to contradicting him. An undeniably clever young doctor he might be. But it seemed to her that he was altogether too young, too cocksure and too much accustomed to riding rough‐shod over other people’s opinions. He hadn’t got any of Ted’s natural steadiness, and he didn’t dress so well.

  But Bill knew Mrs Josser, too. And he no longer made the mistake of answering her. Instead, he went straight on with what he was saying – which annoyed Mrs Josser still further.

  ‘That’s what you need now,’ he continued. ‘A fortnight at the seaside. Somewhere not too far away. Like Brighton.’

  ‘The East Coast’s more bracing,’ Mrs Josser observed.

  ‘And have a drink or two when you feel like one,’ Bill went on. ‘Tone yourself up a bit.’

  ‘He isn’t fit to travel,’ Mrs Josser put in.

  ‘And play with the slot‐machine on the pier. Have a ride in a char‐a‐banc. Go to the Pavilion.’

  Mr Josser had not replied until now. He was wearing the resigned, contented smile of someone who is the helpless centre of conversation.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘I don’t need a holiday. Give me another week or two and I’ll be on my feet again. Besides, I can’t afford it.’

  Mrs Josser pursed her lips.

  ‘Of course you can afford it,’ she said. ‘You’re going away as soon as the doctor says you can.’

  ‘And what about the Building Society?’ Mr Josser asked. ‘They’re keeping the job open for me until the end of the month.’

  Mrs Josser’s lips contracted again.

  ‘I married you, not the Building Society,’ she said firmly, as though the remark made sense.

  Mr Josser leant back again. ‘Well, well,’ he answered. ‘We’ll wait and see.’

  He was in that placid, slightly aloof state that follows long illness. He really rather enjoyed talking about a seaside holiday so long as he didn’t have to go to the trouble of actually having one. It seemed to him lying there that he was the one sane, contented person in a chattering, impatient world. It was Doris now who wouldn’t leave him alone.

  ‘No we won’t wait and see,’ she said. ‘You’ll do just what Bill says. You’ll go straight off.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Bill urged him. ‘You go to Brighton and I’ll bring Doris down to see you.’

  At that, Mrs Josser’s lips came together like elastic. This was the last straw, Bill’s suggesting that he of all people, should help to keep the Josser family together. She wondered that Doris didn’t say something to show that she resented it.

  But Doris, instead of saying anything, was looking at Bill in one of those strange dark ways in which young women sometimes look.

  It was at this point that Uncle Henry arrived. Not an ideal sick‐bed visitor at any time, he came in to‐night straight from his defeat by the Salvation Army, and aching for an opportunity to air his latest grievance. And at the first pause in the conversation, he took it.

  He turned suddenly towards Bill and addressed him. ‘Have you forgotten about Manchuria?’ he asked. Bill looked surprised.

  ‘Give it up,’ he said. ‘You tell me.’

  3

  Percy had come to a decision. A big decision. He’d ruled Doris clean out of his life. And, in consequence, he was feeling better. So much better in fact that he was falling in love again.

  Of course Doris still occupied a large place in his thoughts. But the thoughts themselves were different now. He’d turned against her in fact. Or told himself that he had, which came to the same thing anyway.

  ‘She’ll be sorry,’ he kept repeating. ‘Throwing herself away on someone just because he saved her father’s life. That’s not love. That’s infatuation. She’ll be sorry. He won’t be able to give her what I could give. She’ll have to do without. She’ll never know what love means. She’ll be sorry.’

  It seemed in his mind now that he and Doris had meant a great deal to each other once, and that she had been unfaithful to him. He saw himself as single purposed and unchanging, someone who was ready to dedicate his whole life to one lucky woman. And because there had to be one lucky woman in his life – and because there was one again now – his self‐esteem was returning. He was a different man. His hair was a bright glittering pad again. Also he’d bought himself a new tie and handkerchief set. They were bluey‐mauve, with a satin stripe in them. And it made Mrs Boon happy just to see them. It showed her Percy was returning to normal. He’d got
over his bit of trouble, whatever it was.

  And now that he’d got interested in this new girl, he didn’t spend so much time worrying about Them and what They were planning to do with him. He went out again quite openly in the evenings, and even passed policemen, and men who looked like policemen, without glancing over his shoulder after they were behind him. Occasionally, he told himself: ‘Doris’ll be sorry. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.’ But most of the time he was thinking about the new girl. She was lovely. He didn’t know her properly yet. All that he knew about her was that her name was Jackie – there was something oddly exciting about having a girl with a boy’s name – and that she had red‐gold hair – natural, no colouring. She worked in an all‐night café at Victoria, and that was where he had met her. He ate most of his meals at the café now, hanging about outside if all the seats at her tables were occupied. As soon as he saw his chance he was going to take her out somewhere and spend money on her.

  Spend money! That made him pause and think. He wasn’t making much money nowadays. Not money that was worth calling money. You couldn’t make enough to keep a girl contented on what you picked up in a garage. It was special jobs, assignments on the side that counted. And he’d been missing these lately. Ever since the scare, he’d backed deliberately out of the sort of company where you heard about what was on. And unless he was going to be content to live forever on thirty shillings and tips, he realised that he would have to get back into the running again. He’d have to start paying Smokey’s and the All‐Star Café a visit or two. It was in Smokey’s that someone had put him on to the hot Bentley.

  And at the thought of another job of that sort and the money it would bring in to him, his spirits mounted. Those two voices, Voice No. 1 and Voice No. 2, began speaking again. ‘Go steady, Percy,’ Voice No. 2 warned him. ‘You don’t want to go getting yourself into further trouble.’ ‘Trouble!’ Voice No. 1 repeated. ‘What’s wrong with a bit of trouble if you’re strong enough to ride it?’ ‘Never get a second chance in this world,’ Voice No. 2 advised cautioningly. ‘One more slip and you’re out.’ ‘And who says you’re going to make another slip?’ Voice No. 1 asked him. ‘You’ve got brains, haven’t you? You’ve got intelligence. Go right in and show them. Make circles round them. Keep ’em guessing. Become a big man. Get on to the job before someone else chisels in on you. Get on with it.’

  The funny thing was that the incident of the Blonde troubled him so little by now. It didn’t really seem his affair any more. The details of it had grown blurred and confused inside his mind, so that it was by now like something that he had seen or read about. Not like something that had actually happened to him. After all, it was over two months ago that it had happened. Over sixty days and nights since he’d been mixed up in it. And a fellow can’t go on thinking about the same thing for ever, can he? Percy Boon and the affair on Wimbledon Common were fast becoming separated.

  He was on his way over to Victoria now. The bluey‐mauve handkerchief was sticking out of the breast pocket of his dark pin stripe and he was wearing his pale grey hat with the black band.

  ‘I look O.K.,’ he’d said to himself as he passed the tobacconist’s plate glass mirror with the name Salmon and Gluckstein stencilled across it. ‘They done this suit well across the shoulders. I look O.K.’

  He had to wait for a tram. But he didn’t mind. It wouldn’t be a tram for long that he’d be using. Something low‐swept and sporting like an Alvis. Or one of those big Americans with feather‐springs and air conditioning and finger‐tip gear‐change. Not by himself either. The red‐gold girl would be beside him. She’d be seeing life for the first time. She’d be going places. She’d be learning. And he’d be teaching her. He’d have his hand on her knee while he was driving.

  ‘She’ll understand me,’ he began saying. ‘She’ll understand even if I tell her everything. She’s been through things. She’s suffered. You can tell by her eyes she’s suffered. She deserves to have it all come right. And she’ll look O.K. anywhere. You wouldn’t have to worry about her. She’ll be a help too. Not just a bleeding drag. She knows a thing or two already, not like Doris. She’ll understand even if I tell her everything.’

  With the discovery of the red‐gold waitress, the Blonde was really dead now.

  Chapter XXVII

  The Jossers going away wasn’t only just their own affair. The whole of No. 10 was in it. Mrs Vizzard, Mrs Boon, Connie, even Mr Squales and Mr Puddy, all gave help or advice. Everyone, in fact, except Mr Todds, the sub‐lodger, got drawn into it. As the day grew nearer, the tension mounted. And on the morning of the departure – it was the ten‐ten from Victoria that they were planning to catch – excitement reached a high peak. After all, there was a reason for it. Mr Josser in health was Mrs Josser’s affair, and nobody else’s. But Mr Josser, convalescent and still feeble, belonged to the whole lot of them. He was their invalid.

  The first sign that the awaited hour was really on them was when Mrs Boon, still with the same sad expression on her face as though at any moment she expected to be made unhappy, came downstairs carrying a tray with tea things on it and a plate of fancy biscuits. She knocked respectfully and went into the room where the bags, carefully locked and strapped as well against disaster, seemed to take up most of the floor. There were only three of them – three and a straw bag of the kind that game is sent in – but they looked more somehow. Perhaps it was the piled‐up look that came from Mr and Mrs Josser’s umbrellas planted sideways across the top so that they shouldn’t get left behind.

  ‘I just brought you down some tea,’ Mrs Boon explained. ‘I knew you wouldn’t want to be making any at a time like this.’

  She spoke in her usual hushed voice but there was a distinct hint of big things impending in the way she put it. She might have been talking to the wife of Moses on the morning of Exodus.

  Mr Josser was the first to speak. He was sitting propped up in his armchair with a tea‐cup in his hand. But he didn’t allow himself to be the least bit embarrassed.

  ‘Now if that isn’t real nice of Mrs Boon,’ he said. ‘I could just do with another cup.’

  Mrs Josser drew in her lips.

  ‘It’s very kind of you. Very kind indeed,’ she said.

  She was at once flattered and vexed by the amount of attention that she had been receiving. As a forthright and independent woman she found it both touching and galling to be treated as though she herself were an invalid. It was silly, too, because she felt confident that, if the occasion had arisen, she could perfectly well have shepherded the whole of Dulcimer Street, children and all, to Brighton alone, single‐handed and unaided.

  As the fresh pot of tea was there, however, there was no point in not using it and she accepted the cup that Mrs Boon poured out for her.

  ‘Nothing to eat, thank you,’ she said. ‘We’ve got something with us for the journey.’

  Something for the journey had been Mr Puddy’s idea. From the moment that he had heard that the Jossers were going, the ordeal of the trip had haunted him. And when Mrs Josser had finally told him that they were taking sandwiches, he knew that his worst fears were really justified. Sausage rolls, he said, were the thing. Sausage rolls and a couple of hard boiled eggs apiece. Anything less for a journey of that length was simply asking for trouble.

  They were still sipping the tea that Mrs Boon had made them, when they heard steps coming up the stairs from the basement. They were hard staccato steps as though there were no spring, only impetus, behind each footfall. Mrs Josser knew the step. It was Mrs Vizzard’s. And, when she entered, she was carrying two neat brown paper packets tied round with fine white string. She went over and whispered in Mrs Josser’s ear.

  ‘Just a little something in case you should want a snack in the train,’ she said. ‘It’s only bridge‐rolls and cress.’

  Mrs Josser thanked her and put the packets in the straw bag on top of the other things. Made nervous by Mr Puddy’s warnings she had packed rather a lot of food in
there already.

  Then with all that fresh tea going she offered Mrs Vizzard a cup.

  It was probably the chink of the tea things that brought Connie down – the chink of tea things, and the smell of human company. It was early for her, after her late hours at the night‐club. But she was dressed all right. She was wearing her red velvet house‐dress – the one with the lace collar and turnback cuffs – and she had even made her face up. In the cold morning light it was more doll‐like and startling than ever.

  ‘All ready?’ she asked cheerfully. ‘Remembered your bathing costumes?’

  Mr Josser laughed. He liked Connie. Especially the way she always had the right thing ready to say at the right time. But Mrs Vizzard simply ignored her. Their little piece of unpleasantness was still too recent in the memory – it was, indeed, ineffaceable – to be passed over in easy banter. And in the end it was so obvious that there was coldness between the two of them that Mrs Josser was forced to do something about it. So she got down another cup and saucer. She didn’t want Connie there. Wished that she hadn’t come. Would have preferred that she went away again. But, after all she couldn’t send the poor old thing back upstairs without giving her anything, could she?

  ‘Cup of tea, Connie?’ she asked brusquely.

  ‘Cuppa tea,’ Connie answered. ‘That’s me.’

  She glanced down at the cherry Madeira cake as she spoke and then looked round at the company.