London Belongs to Me

by Norman Collins

  2

  Over at Finsbury Park everything was going swimmingly. It was an all‐Red Indian evening. Always a safe line, Mr Squales considered, even if a bit hackneyed. It was his old friend Mocking Bear who had come through, gruff, throaty and pregnant with vision. He was something of an autocrat was Mocking Bear and frequently answered only in monosyllables. But that was the keynote of a brave – terse, contemptuous, uncontradictable.

  ‘Is there going to be war?’

  The question framed by a pale clergyman had duly been passed on for Mocking Bear’s consideration.

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Will Hitler invade Poland?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Is Memel still a danger point?’

  For a moment, there was no answer because Mocking Bear wasn’t quite sure where Memel was. It was one of those things that he’d often meant to look up.

  The question was repeated but, when Mocking Bear showed no inclination to reply they passed on. As it happened, however, the next question was a bit of a stumper, too.

  ‘And Gdynia?’

  Gdynia, like Memel, was one those places that Mocking Bear wasn’t sure about. But he couldn’t go on not remembering. The reply came prompt but non‐committal.

  ‘Uh.’

  ‘Will Hitler die a violent death?’

  Mocking Bear was on surer ground this time. ‘Yuh,’ he answered.

  ‘How soon?’

  No answer.

  ‘This year?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Next year?’

  ‘Yuh.’

  ‘Before the summer?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘In the autumn?’

  ‘Yuh.’

  ‘September?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘October?’

  ‘Yuh.’

  ‘On the first?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘The second?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘The third?’

  ‘Yuh.’

  Hitler dead on the 3rd October, 1940! That at least was something established. And it caused a bit of a sensation. Just to check this vital piece of information they asked the same question again. But there was no doubt about the reply. ‘Yuh, yuh,’ Mocking Bear answered as though irritated at being cross‐examined. He thawed a bit, however, when they asked him to tell them more about the future, the future that looked so sombre yet so shot through with violent colours.

  ‘Mocking Bear says peace in Pale Face Country,’ came the answer. ‘War clouds vanish like summer snow. Papooses play and squaws happy. Braves put away scalping‐knives and repair wigwam. Much pipe‐smoking. Bad eagle fly away with arrow in his breast.’

  Mr Squales began stirring because he couldn’t lie any longer in that position with the clip of his suspender cutting into the soft part of his calf. The people round the table recognised that the trance‐state was drawing to a close, and they all unconsciously relaxed a little. Twenty minutes later Mr Squales with a two‐guinea cheque in his pocket was stepping it out in the direction of the Seven Sisters Road.

  The secretary had been very nice about it. He had proposed a vote of thanks and asked if Mr Squales could come along in a fortnight to give them the Direct Voice for the second time. A fortnight’s time. That brought it to the 4th of September. It suited Mr Squales all right. He’d be able to tell them more about the future by then. Allay their fears. Cast light into the dark places. And he was going to give them value. Something old Spanish, Dom Rodriquez or some such name, was what had occurred to him. Not that Mocking Bear hadn’t been a winner. Perhaps it would be a mistake, a disappointment to his public, to change his repertoire.

  As he reflected on his success his mind enlarged and expanded. The horizon came near again and he stepped out to meet it.

  ‘I’ll give her to the end of the week,’ he reflected, ‘and then if I haven’t heard from her she’ll hear from me. She did say something about my going down there for a week‐end and if people don’t mean that sort of thing they shouldn’t say it.’

  He was still thinking about Mrs Jan Byl and about the delights of a weekend there when he returned to Dulcimer Street. His mind was full of it. That was why he was so thoughtless as to blurt it all out quite suddenly.

  ‘Kitty, my love,’ he asked, without warning, ‘have you got a decent suitcase? Something that you wouldn’t mind being seen carrying. My own is now too battered, too travel‐worn. I may have to go away on business.’

  3

  Percy was having company. He’d got Mr Barks and Mr Veesey Blaize both locked in with him.

  It was the first time he’d ever seen Mr Veesey Blaize. And, looking at him, he wondered how he could have been so much impressed by Mr Barks. Mr Barks was a gentleman all right, no question about that. And he was well‐to‐do and important looking. But compared with Mr Veesey Blaize there was nothing to him. Mr Barks hadn’t done more than touch the fringe of what a real gentleman could be. He was just a gent, in a small way. Whereas Mr Veesey Blaize’s gentlemanliness was something that caught you right between the eyes. It was the whole effect that did it. But, coming down to details, the result was still just as good. There was a gold filling to one of his teeth, for instance. And a gold signet‐ring the size of a shilling on his left hand. And that wasn’t all. There was the butterfly‐collar with wider points than Percy had ever seen. They sprang right out on either side of him almost as though Mr Veesey Blaize were proceeding under sail. And the bow‐tie was a good bright one, too. It was in silver‐grey check and added just that note of dress – almost fancy‐dress – that Percy admired. It showed that Mr Veesey Blaize didn’t mind being looked at.

  But the real fun came from his manner. He treated every one, Mr Barks included, like dirt just to show who was the gentleman. Interrupted them before they’d finished speaking, and didn’t always listen when they answered. Every one except Percy, that is. He was very polite to Percy. Polite in front of Mr Barks, which is what counted. Percy only wished that there had been one or two of the warders in the room as well so that Mr Veesey Blaize could have been polite to him in front of them, too.

  There was an extra chair brought in specially for him, so they all sat down in a semi‐circle. Percy was grateful for the extra chair and felt sure that Mr Veesey Blaize had arranged it. Otherwise Percy would have had to stand, and that wouldn’t have been so good. Then Mr Veesey Blaize opened a great strapped‐up case filled with papers tied up in little bundles, and buried his large and purplish face inside one of the flaps. It was only a moment, however, before he found what he wanted. He put the case on the floor beside him, took out a massive pair of horn‐rimmed spectacles and began to read.

  ‘There are just one or two points I’m not quite clear about,’ he said at length in his thick rich voice as though he were talking on the wireless. ‘Just one or two. The young lady, for instance.’

  ‘You mean the deceased,’ Mr Barks began.

  ‘Yurs, yurs,’ Mr Veesey Blaize answered. ‘Let Mr Boon tell me in his own words. We understand each other, don’t we, Mr Boon?’

  Percy nodded. He liked Mr Veesey Blaize. Liked him almost better than anybody else he’d ever met.

  ‘Now about the young lady,’ Mr Blaize continued. ‘You were friendly, weren’t you?’

  ‘So so,’ said Percy guardedly.

  ‘Oh, come,’ Mr Blaize objected. ‘Don’t be shy with me. I was young myself once. You used to go about with her?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘And you looked forward to going about a bit more, eh?’

  Percy nodded.

  ‘And I expect she liked you, didn’t she?’

  ‘Seemed to.’

  ‘Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. She was a very nice young lady, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She was all right.’

  What was Mr Veesey Blaize getting at, he wondered. It wasn’t any good talking about the Blonde, so far as he could see. Too late for that now. Besides, as things were, he wanted to forget her. He d
idn’t like being reminded. But Mr Veesey Blaize was off again.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d had the money if you two wouldn’t have got married. Nice little home together somewhere, eh?’

  Percy pondered for a moment.

  ‘Might of.’

  Mr Veesey Blaize seemed pleased again.

  ‘Now I’m going to ask you a very solemn question,’ he continued. ‘Suppose at this moment the door opened and the young lady came in, fresh and beautiful, as she was when you knew her, would you take her in your arms or would you thrust her away from you because of all the trouble you’re in on account of her?’

  ‘Wasn’t her fault,’ Percy told him.

  ‘Ah, you see,’ said Mr Veesey Blaize turning to Mr Barks. ‘Just as I said.’ He swung round on Percy again. ‘All we’ve got to do is to make that clear to the jury and they’ll understand that you didn’t mean to kill her. Now about the car door. Mr Barks tells me that it was loose. Very loose. As a motor mechanic, Mr Boon, have you ever known a car door fly open? You have! Well, there you are then.’

  Mr Veesey Blaize shut up all the papers again, stuffed them back into the bulging brief‐case, and took off his massive spectacles.

  ‘That’s given me all I wanted, Mr Boon. Mr Barks will be seeing you. But we shan’t meet again until we’re together in court. Don’t be nervous. Just answer as though you hadn’t got anything to hide, and you’ll be all right. Just take things easily as it were. And if you’ve got anything special that you want to tell me just let Mr Barks know. The more we know, the better. Eh, Mr Barks?’

  They’d gone now, Mr Barks tagging along like a terrier behind a mastiff. The cell seemed very empty without them. Very empty and very quiet. Percy wished that they were still there. He wished that he could have given them a drink or something. Even tea would have been better than nothing. The only thing that had been wrong had been all that talk about the Blonde. It wasn’t good taste somehow. And now that they’d gone it was rather creepy. Didn’t they realise that he’d got feelings like other people?

  Suppose Mr Veesey Blaize had done in a girl, how would he like to have Percy dropping in on him and asking if he would like to take her in his arms if he had the chance?

  Chapter XLVII

  Piccadilly Circus may be the centre of London. And some people – enthusiastic provincials mostly – have called it the centre of the world. But you’ve only got to go about a bit to see that even the first claim is dubious.

  Take the Marble Arch, for instance. The crowds at the Marble Arch actually stop where they are – whereas at Piccadilly Circus every one is always on the way to somewhere else. Choose any fine summer evening and at the Marble Arch you’ll find a crowd of several hundred people standing about greedily savouring the simple but tremendous pleasure of merely being there. It’s a good spot. As dusk falls, the Park in the background becomes vast and mysterious, and the gas‐lamps that light your way along the main paths dwindle into the distance like lanterns in Illyria. But somehow or other it remains London, with the buses that cruise up Park Lane twinkling through the railings, and the air filled with roar and rustle of innumerable wheels. Yes, it’s London all right. But it’s also somewhere right outside it. Sufficiently far out for you to be able to look up into the sky as the dusk deepens and see the gigantic upturned bowl of brightness that the West End has erected above itself. You can, in fact, stand at the Marble Arch and be just wherever you want to be, in London or in the country. That’s the magic of the place. Or rather, that’s how it was in 1939.

  But the magic wasn’t working for Mr Josser because he didn’t want to be there at all. He was standing miserably in the forefront of a group of about a dozen people trying to derive some comfort from the reflection that no one was to know that the prophet on the folding pulpit was his brother‐in‐law.

  There was no real cause for anxiety, however. Uncle Henry was conspicuous only to Mr Josser. Indeed, in all London there was probably no place where he would have been less conspicuous. For there were other Uncle Henries all round him. Just beside his elbow, so close that the two messages sometimes became mingled, was a Kensitite Uncle Henry preaching the straight Bible and no truck with Rome. A little further on was a bi‐metallist Uncle Henry reforming the currency. Then came an historical Uncle Henry who proved with bewildering satisfaction that everything important in the world happens in years that are multiples of 13 or 29. But, as a draw, he was a failure compared with young Cousin Henry of the British Union of Fascists who kept telling his listeners to carry a dagger in their belts and keep their weather‐eye on Palestine. Further on was another popular draw, a black Uncle Henry with a grievance against doctors. And, in between, came an anti‐vivisectionist Uncle Henry trying to whip up his audience of one old man into a frenzy by brandishing a picture of a chloroformed cat. Then, further on still, came Comrade Henry of the Communist Party exposing an ingenious plot on the part of the employers to attack Russia by getting the government to declare war on Germany. And last of all was old Father Henry, dressed up in the loose black and white robes of the Dominican Order, recounting the miracle of Lourdes.

  Indeed, it would have seemed at first glance as though even the most exacting listener could have found exactly what he wanted simply by strolling on until he came to others of his own persuasion. But that wasn’t the way things worked. On the contrary, all the audiences were hostile. Communists gathered round the Fascist, and Fascists congregated in front of the Communist. A sworn adherent to Gold stuck himself under the nose of the bi‐metallist, and the mere mention of Lourdes brought atheists, agnostics, rationalists and free‐thinkers crushing round the Dominican. Uncle Henry’s own group was made up to a man of steady‐going Primrose Leaguers who supported Mr Chamberlain.

  The day had been hot, swelteringly hot. It had still been hot when Uncle Henry had climbed up into his little pulpit. Mr Josser had seen the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead as he was speaking. But now, with evening, it had grown suddenly colder. Mr Josser found himself shivering. A wind sprang up shaking the branches overhead. And a few drops of rain fell – isolated heavy drops that suggested more. Immediately the crowd, timid as kittens at the approach of water, divided up into small groups and huddled themselves at the foot of trees or made their way in crocodile‐streams to the bus‐stops or the Underground.

  Uncle Henry finally folded up his notes and came down from the pulpit in the manner of an admiral quitting the bridge after a successful engagement.

  ‘I reckon that got under their skins,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘That made ’em think.’

  ‘G‐good,’ said Mr Josser, his teeth chattering. ‘Shall we get this down now?’

  He pointed at the folding pulpit as he spoke and began fingering the patent catches. Those two hours had been unpleasantly chilling, simply standing there. And now, with the rain threatening at any moment to become a downpour, he wanted to be getting home. It was different for Uncle Henry, who had taken out his coloured handkerchief and was wiping off the perspiration that was still forming on his forehead.

  ‘What we need,’ he said, ‘is hundreds of these meetings up and down the country. Protests. Mass demonstrations. Telegrams to M.P.s.’

  ‘J‐just so,’ Mr Josser answered.

  He had just found the secret of the patent catch which was holding the pulpit together. It really needed two people to work it. But Mr Josser didn’t want to bother Uncle Henry at the moment. That was how it was that the whole contraption suddenly came crashing to the ground without warning. It was a multi‐jointed affair and it took them both some time to get it up again and shut properly.

  Even then they were left with the pile of pamphlets, the ‘literature’ as Uncle Henry called it. There were two large batches, one entitled ‘The Way to War’ and the other ‘What price Munich?’ And they were becoming sodden. Uncle Henry went across and folded his Evening Standard over them. As he did so, Mr Josser could not help noticing that the headlines of the pape
r were as alarmist as Uncle Henry. They announced that Queen Wilhelmina and King Leopold, as safe as two neutrals can be, were offering to mediate in the impending quarrel between giants.

  Uncle Henry looked up suddenly.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘For literature, I mean,’ Uncle Henry explained. ‘Let me know as soon as you want some more. I’m having another edition printed.’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ Mr Josser promised.

  He felt uncomfortable and deceitful as he said it. There was a whole heap still behind the couch in Dulcimer Street. Or there were, if Mrs Josser hadn’t moved them. She’d been threatening to throw them away if Mr Josser didn’t do something.

  ‘Well, give me a hand then,’ Uncle Henry said abruptly.

  He slung the bundle of pamphlets over his shoulder and Mr Josser took the pulpit. They didn’t have far to go because Uncle Henry’s green bicycle was chained against the railings, and there was a trailer attached to it. The trailer had been Uncle Henry’s own invention. A picture of it, with Uncle Henry up, had appeared in Cycling. Into the trailer went the two bundles with the folding pulpit fitted across the top. Then Uncle Henry squatted down beside it and proceeded to lash up the contraption with straps.

  ‘See you at Parliament Hill on Sunday,’ he said. ‘Eleven o’clock sharp.’ Mr Josser nodded.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he said.

  Uncle Henry came closer.

  ‘And keep next Thursday free,’ he said confidentially. ‘I may be taking the Prince of Wales Baths…’

  They had reached Stanhope Gate by now and Uncle Henry climbed into the saddle. As Mr Josser, with coat‐collar turned up, stood watching him, he found that he rather envied the man. He seemed so vigorous, so independent, so inexhaustible.