London Belongs to Me

by Norman Collins

  2

  A tribe’s O.K. so long as you’re a member of it. Then the rest can carry you. And you get things for nothing. And, if you’re smart, nobody notices. And if anything goes wrong there’s all the rest of them to draw on. A tribe’s O.K. So long as you’re a member of it.

  But what about Percy? Yes, what about Percy? We saw so much of him at one time. Something almost every day, in fact. And now he’s passed clean out. Not so much as a glimpse of him. Has anything happened? Is he all right? Is he still there? Is he – to put it bluntly – a member of the tribe? Or isn’t he?

  Well, he’s still there. And, in a way, he’s all right. But he isn’t a member of the tribe any more. Not really. When other people were getting out their spears and smearing on the war‐paint, he got left behind. And the funny thing is that, though the warriors are some of them far away by now, their names are on everybody’s lips. Whereas you never hear Percy mentioned. The tribe’s forgotten all about him, even though he’s still at home. Forgotten entirely. By all except Mrs Boon, that is. She still prays for him night and morning. And talks of him, too, when the doctor’s wife isn’t listening.

  The plain fact is that there’s been too much happening for Percy to be remembered. And, if you must know, Percy never was as important as he thought himself. It was really only by chance that he happened to hit the headlines at all. And by then the mischief had been done. After the palaver was over, the women‐folk just shrugged their shoulders and returned to their cooking‐pots.

  Percy was out.

  But not to himself. With Percy, Percy still counted for a lot.

  And he was getting on O.K. He was on uppers now. And he hadn’t made any mistakes yet. At least not bad ones. Not bad enough for the foreman‐warder to have spotted. And if they got past him, why worry? Percy hadn’t got to wear the boots, had he?

  He wouldn’t have believed that he could get so interested in boots. Not just in three sizes of them. But he had. He could tell which size he was cutting by the shape of the curves as he went round them. Could have told it in his sleep. And if he knew as much as that in four months, he’d be on to stitching before the year was out. And that wasn’t bad. There were some seven‐year men who’d never worked up to stitching. Seven years, and never got beyond soles. Percy was getting on O.K., he was.

  The prison chaplain thought so, too. He was pleased with Percy. Very pleased. He was such a bright intelligent lad compared with most of them. And polite. He always got up when the chaplain entered. And called him ‘sir.’ That was one of the best of signs. It showed respect for authority.

  If only Percy had got a bit more of a voice, the chaplain would have given him a place in the choir. Because music, properly handled, could work miracles. But as the choir was impossible, the chaplain tried his other approach – Association Football. The great thing about soccer was that it taught that it was the team and not the individual that mattered. And the team‐spirit was everything. That was why he encouraged an intelligent interest in the professional side of soccer as well. Not to bet on, of course. No pools. But simply because soccer was fought between teams. And the best man in the team was the man who was best for the team. There was a sermon in every cup final.

  So that Percy could keep up the conversation on Wednesdays which was the day when the chaplain had his private time with him, Percy read all about soccer in the marked cuttings that were provided. It wasn’t difficult, memorising the fixtures. And the chaplain never noticed that he didn’t care for the game really. Too tame. Not enough in it. No excitement. Dogs were better. Or boxing. Or exhibition dancing with a partner you took round with you. But if the chaplain liked to talk soccer, that was O.K. by him. It was better than some of the things the chaplain talked about.

  But with nothing to talk about but soccer and nothing to read but what was in the prison library – and those books were a proper disgrace: no thrills, no sex, no love‐interest, even – no wonder Percy had to fill his mind with other things. When the key turned in the door at night he used to go over the same old story every time. He was eighteen now. Be nineteen in September. And a life sentence like his only meant fifteen years really. That would make him thirty‐four by the time he got out. Things would have changed a bit by then. Couldn’t help it. Progress was like that. Houses would be all‐plastic, he wouldn’t wonder. And television in every room. Tune in to New York for hot crooners whenever you felt like it. Or go across there. Atlantic taxis. Sixty‐seaters. With stewardesses wearing sailor‐hats. Come to think of it, it wouldn’t be motor‐cars people would be stealing then. It would be auto‐gyros. Pick up a plane in an airfield and get chased through the clouds by cops in rocket‐helicopters. And no shooting when they caught up with you. Just tickle your ribs with a death‐ray… Percy extended his forefinger, his lethal death‐ray finger, and made a low whirring sound with his tongue. His finger toured the four corners of the cell, exploring it. Percy was doing a death‐ray hold‐up.

  He’d told the chaplain once about how funny everything would seem when he came out again. And the chaplain had got it all wrong. He’d been sorry for him. But that wasn’t what Percy meant. Percy was looking forward. There was nothing in the least old‐fashioned about Percy.

  Besides, he was O.K. He’d been lucky being put inside so early. Suppose he’d waited a bit, and then gone inside. Where would he have been then? He’d never have caught up again. As it was, he’d still be on the right side of forty when he took up the reins again. And even forty wasn’t old. Not for a man. He knew a lot of girls – quite lively ones, too, some of them – who preferred men that way. He hadn’t got anything to worry about. He was lucky having gone in so early. He was O.K.

  It was only his mother that he was worried about. He’d have liked her to be O.K., too. But somehow he didn’t know whether she’d care for things the way they’d be when he came out. Plastic houses, and things.

  Chapter LXXXVIII

  1

  And Mrs Vizzard?

  Poor woman. For her, they had been difficult, perplexing months as well as lonely ones. She had made up her mind, unmade it, made it up again. And not once merely, but a succession of times. The pattern of indecision had looked like being extended indefinitely right along the entire fabric of her life.

  There had been no uncertainty in Mrs Vizzard’s mind at the outset. When she had first learned of Mr Squales’ duplicity – and it seemed now she had never really doubted it – she had been resolved upon revenge. Nothing less than a writ, and damages and the creature’s dishonoured picture in all the papers would satisfy her. During those weeks of mystery while Mr Squales’ whereabouts were still unknown, she had been one of Hell’s leading Furies.

  But when Connie, rosy with mischief, had returned from Chiddingly on that May evening to boast that she had done what Mr Barks’ sleuths had failed to do, Mrs Vizzard began to experience her first misgivings. The image, Connie’s image, of Mr Squales as a winkle and herself as a pin, had displeased Mrs Vizzard. Was it possible, she had wondered that, in going through with this thing, in baring her poor bleeding heart in a court of law, she was simply appeasing Connie’s insatiable appetite for sensation? Was it really her wish to destroy publicly everything that in private had seemed so delicious, so desirable? To sum up, was it ladylike?

  But ladylike or not, she didn’t fancy letting the wretch get away with it. Every time she closed her eyes if only for a moment she remembered – could see as plainly as if the various items were written there – the list of presents that she had showered on him. It was a long list. A list ending with the valise that he had showered upon himself.

  As for Mr Squales, he had practically forgotten Dulcimer Street. Forgotten Dulcimer Street. And forgotten Mrs Vizzard. Even forgotten what it had felt like to be hard up.

  It was really astonishing quite how rapidly the spectre of poverty had receded. Something strange and wonderful had taken place inside him, and he was transformed. Metamorphosised. The shabby back‐room chrysalis was now
a pretty full‐sized sort of butterfly.

  He was, as a matter of fact, nearly a stone heavier. He had put on twelve and a half pounds in just over three months. And his wife was delighted with him. Absolutely delighted. Admittedly, so far as his mediumship was concerned, this was one of his Sabbatical periods. The days and weeks were passing without so much as one psychic flicker through his whole thickening figure. But wasn’t this the case with all mediums? Hadn’t the great Schneider had his wintry seasons long before his prime? Mr Squales saw no cause for anxiety. Not yet.

  And what was so gratifying – and so surprising in a man of his temperament – was that he had proved himself such an adaptable kind of husband. When Mrs Squales, after she could stand it no longer, had asked him cautiously if he were really attached to his light grey cashmere with the double‐breasted waistcoat – the one that Mrs Vizzard had given him for a walking‐out suit – he had replied simply that he hated the thing. In consequence, he now had hanging up in his wardrobe two rough country tweeds, a dark blue worsted with an almost indiscernible stripe and a new dinner‐jacket.

  At the moment, however, because it was so hot he was wearing a sports shirt and a pair of flannels. More than once he had reflected on the irony of it. Because flannels may mean anything. And unless he had gone to the length of showing people the tailor’s label sewn inside the waistband at the back there was no way of proving that he wasn’t still going about in something cheap and nasty off the peg.

  Not that in present company there was any danger. It was one of his wife’s tea‐parties under the big cedar of the lawn. And only a certain class of person – the class that didn’t know about things off pegs – got invited. Mr Squales always enjoyed these occasions. There was something at once so graceful yet so informal, about the whole setting. So essentially English. The Prince’s Plate tea‐pot merged delightfully into the background of laurel hedges. And the butler’s white shirt‐front, a sparkling shield of pure ivory, added just that touch of the baronial that the scene demanded. The war seemed very far away.

  ‘There’s a gentleman from London wishes to speak to you, sir.’

  Mr Squales started. He had been day‐dreaming. He hadn’t noticed that the butler was already close beside him. Too close, in fact. He was practically crowding.

  ‘I’m wanted on the phone, you mean?’ Mr Squales demanded.

  The butler came even closer.

  ‘No, sir. He’s here. In the hall. He says he’s got something private to deliver.’

  ‘Something private?’

  The butler dropped his voice still lower.

  ‘He’s from the solicitors, sir,’ he explained.

  And then Mr Squales remembered. It was something to sign. Or something. His wife had warned him all about it. She’d given him a block of shares in a present. Just enough to enable him to vote. And now there was the matter of a waiver. Mr Squales wondered dimly what was expected of him. He had never waived before. But presumably, he told himself, the solicitor’s clerk would know how to do it. Otherwise, why send him all this way?

  ‘Show him out here,’ he said to the butler. And with an easy smile, he addressed his wife’s guests: ‘You will forgive me?’ he asked. ‘Some papers I have to sign. A rather important document.’

  He caught his wife’s eye and smiled lovingly.

  It was quite a nice young man who emerged from the house. Even though it had to be admitted that in his black coat and striped trousers he looked oddly out of place there. And in such surroundings he was obviously nervous and ill at ease. Mr Squales noted sympathetically that the young man’s shoes were dusty and cracked across the instep.

  ‘You are from the lawyers?’ he asked.

  The young man’s embarrassment increased.

  ‘Mr Squales?’ he asked.

  ‘Who else?’ Mr Squales replied. ‘Who else, indeed?’

  ‘I have to give you this,’ the young man answered, feeling inside the pocket of his coat.

  But Mr Squales stopped him.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Later. A cup of tea first. A sandwich. You walked?’ ‘Only from the station,’ the young man answered with a grin. ‘Not all the way.’

  Mr Squales ignored the gaucheness of the pleasantry.

  ‘We’ll run you back in the car afterwards,’ he said. ‘Too hot for walking. You take milk? Or lemon?’

  ‘Tea, thank you,’ the young man answered.

  Mr Squales smiled. Clearly the youth was impossible. Yet, in a way, he felt sorry for him. Even rather liked him. He was so crude, so untutored. Mr Squales could imagine the tale of the sheer magnificence of this tea‐party that he would unfold that evening in some tiny villa in Hackney or Turnham Green. And to give him something else to talk about, Mr Squales fished out his gold cigarette case – a wedding present from his wife – and offered the young man a cigarette. ‘Turkish or Virginian?’ he asked.

  The young man lit his cigarette and looked about him.

  ‘Nice bit of property you’ve got here,’ he remarked.

  This time Mr Squales shuddered. They had been his own words once. He decided that he didn’t like the young man so much after all. Scarcely looking at him he extended his hand towards him.

  ‘That letter you spoke about,’ he said. ‘Hadn’t I better have it?’

  It was a large envelope of the best quality that was thrust into his hand and Mr Squales’ fingers tingled as he touched it. He made sure that the guests were watching him and then addressed the young man again.

  ‘I’ll only glance at it now,’ he said. ‘And then we’ll go inside. This needs taking seriously…’

  He had extracted the letter at last, and began reading it. His voice died away as he did so. The shade under the cedar tree seemed suddenly to be full of eyes. And all devouring him. Then he grew oblivious to them. All that he could see was the notepaper that he was holding. At the top ran the words, ‘Barks and Barks, Solicitors.’ And beneath, in the smudged blue‐ink which is peculiar to solicitors’ typewriting, ran the words: ‘Sir, Our client Mrs Emily Jane Vizzard instructs us that whereas you promised to enter into a state of marriage…’ Mr Squales’ gaze fled further down the page, ‘…breach of promise19… damages and compensation…’ He closed his eyes. He swayed.

  And because his eyes were closed, Mr Squales did not see that his wife had crossed over to him. The first thing that he knew was that the letter had been playfully tweaked out of his hand, and that she was reading it.

  As soon as he realised what had happened, his poise, his good manners, left him.

  ‘Gimme,’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘Gimme.’

  He tried to snatch the letter back as he said it and, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the young man grinning at him again. But it was too late. Mrs Squales had seen as much as he had seen. She had seen enough in fact. There was silence. An awful unending silence.

  Mr Squales glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the house. There was something furtive about it as though he might still make a dash for it. His wife’s hand, however, was on his arm. It was a firm, unshakable kind of hand. And it was digging into him.

  Her voice, too, when she spoke, was firm and unshakable. Just like her hand. And it dug in just as deep.

  ‘Would you all please go on?’ she asked, turning to the guests. ‘I’m afraid we must leave you for a moment.’

  The she addressed her husband:

  ‘Come, Rico,’ she said. ‘Come and read me your letter.’

  Chapter LXXXIX

  Mr Puddy had done himself a bit of good.

  Simply by keeping on where he was instead of darting about like some points‐shoppers, he had got something to show for it. The man at the provisions counter where Mr Puddy dealt had known him for a long time; and he respected Mr Puddy’s kind of shopping – patient, contemplative, discriminating. He was the same sort of human being himself. And it was because of this spiritual bond between the two of them that he half closed one eye, rubbed his forefinger expressively along th
e side of his nose and from under the counter passed Mr Puddy a limp sagging parcel done up in grease‐proof paper. Appreciating that any display of emotion was out of place in transactions of this kind, Mr Puddy merely slid the little packet into his attaché case, inclined his head slightly to show that he understood and left the shop unhurriedly.

  Of course, once he was outside, it was altogther different. By then he could afford to be inquisitive. Resting the case up against the lamp‐post opposite, he prised open the grease‐proof paper and peeped inside. His guess had been right. It was the better part – probably the whole part – of eight ounces of picnic ham. Already sliced. Not too thin. And with no more than a halo of white fat all round it. Mr Puddy closed his eyes for a moment.

  ‘Hab,’ he told himself. ‘Pribe hab.’

  And, at the thought of so much happiness, he closed his eyes for a moment.

  ‘If I could odly lay be hads on sub tobatoes there’d be dothing else I should deed.’

  It was getting on for six o’clock when Mr Puddy left Dulcimer Street for the tea warehouse. And possibly because of the September weather – hot, cloudless and holidayish – or possibly because he’d picked up half a pound of ripe tomatoes, Mr Puddy was feeling completely at peace with the world.

  Admittedly, he still jumped if a motor‐cycle back‐fired or anything. But remember what he’d been through. During the whole of the Battle of Britain period he’d practically lived on soda bi‐carb. His inside just hadn’t been able to get along without it. Then, as soon as he’d got used to the vapour trails of fighters in the daylight sky and German planes coming down so fast on top of each other that the Stop Press couldn’t keep count – he’d taken the better part of a bottle of milk of magnesia as well on the day when 182 were destroyed – things had started cooking up at night instead. All through the last few days of August he’d had simply shocking heartburn.