London Belongs to Me

by Norman Collins

  Mr Josser was engaged at the moment in re‐reading it. Re‐reading it minutely and seriously so as to miss nothing. In consequence, there was a respectful hush over the whole room. Nobody had said anything since Mrs Josser’s last remark. And that had been distinctly cold and uncompromising.

  ‘The idea of it. At your age!’ was what she had said.

  Mr Josser, however, had not been put off by it. He was far too much excited. So excited, indeed, that he didn’t mind what anybody said about anything. And all because Battlebury and Son had invited him to go back into their counting‐house:

  ‘Dear Mr Josser – On account of the call‐up we find ourselves short‐staffed on the book‐keeping side,’ the letter ran, ‘and Mr Battlebury wonders if you would like to rejoin the firm on your old salary. In the event of your accepting this offer it is, of course, understood that your pension would lapse during your new service with the company. Awaiting a reply at your earliest convenience, Yours sincerely, E. A. Veritter.’

  Mr Josser looked up.

  ‘Just as I said,’ he remarked. ‘They want me back.’

  ‘Let me see that letter,’ Mrs Josser demanded, tightening her lips ominously.

  ‘Half a minute,’ Mr Josser answered. ‘I haven’t finished with it yet.’

  It irritated Mrs Josser to be kept waiting. What was more, it was an alarming indication of the state of Mr Josser’s mind: in the ordinary way he passed things over obediently as soon as he was told to. But to‐day he was holding out on her. And she didn’t like the letter any more when she had got it. As soon as she had finished reading it she drew her lips in more tightly than before. And she kept them drawn in for some moments before speaking.

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘Isn’t it nice of them?’ Mr Josser replied, beaming. ‘Fancy them remembering me.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t they?’

  Mr Josser looked down at his plate again.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there are lots of other fellows that they might have thought of.’

  ‘Not in war‐time, there aren’t,’ Mrs Josser told him.

  She drew in her breath between her teeth. It made a sharp hissing sound as though a serpent had spoken. She was determined to say nothing more in front of Cynthia, and only wondered if Mr Josser’s idiotic allegiance to his old firm would make it impossible for her to keep to her decision. Apparently the mere words ‘BATTLEBURY and SON’ at the top of a piece of notepaper were enough to unhinge her husband. If it had actually been the majestic Mr Battlebury himself, and not simply one of his underlings who had signed the letter, Mr Josser would probably have swooned clean away holding it.

  ‘Still some life in the old ’un yet,’ Mr Josser said suddenly. ‘I’ll show

  ’em.’

  ‘You won’t do anything of the sort,’ Mrs Josser contradicted him. ‘Not with your chest.’

  ‘What’s my chest got to do with it?’

  ‘Do you imagine I’d let you go back there just because that Mr Battlebury of yours snaps his fingers at you?’ Mrs Josser retorted.

  ‘But I’m better now. I’m perfectly well again.’

  ‘And you’re going to stay well. Back to work again at your age, indeed!’

  Mrs Josser’s references to his age annoyed him.

  ‘Mr Veritter’s my age,’ he answered. ‘He’s working.’

  ‘Mr Veritter hasn’t got your chest,’ Mrs Josser reminded him.

  Then Mr Josser lost his temper. Carried away by the sheer magic of the notepaper, he thumped the breakfast table.

  ‘My chest’s perfectly all right,’ he said loudly. ‘It’s as good as anybody else’s.’

  ‘Then why are we all down here instead of in Dulcimer Street where we ought to be,’ demanded Mrs Josser. ‘Don’t forget I’m the one who has all the trouble when anything goes wrong with it. Not you.’

  ‘But nothing’s going to go wrong with it,’ Mr Josser persisted. ‘Not if you stay here and take things quietly, it isn’t,’ Mrs Josser replied, her voice rising, too. ‘I don’t want two funerals on my hands inside six months.’

  Her lips were drawn in tight again by now. And, behind her spectacles, her eyes looked misty.

  As it was obviously impossible to make any impression on her for the time being and as Mr Josser was always very much ashamed after he had lost his temper, he decided to leave it at that. He got up from the table and went out into the garden. Usually a good smoke soothed him. But this morning he was too unsettled to smoke. He simply stood there in the sunlight, his pipe in his hand, fiddling. The letter had brought the past back to him so closely that he wondered suddenly how he could ever have borne to be separated from it. It was as though merely by dictating the letter, Mr Veritter had invited Mr Josser to step back into his own youth. All because of this wonderful war, being sixty‐five didn’t matter any more.

  ‘I wonder about trains,’ he was thinking. ‘There must be some good early ones…’

  Back indoors Cynthia was trying to gloss over the little incident.

  ‘It’s reely me that ought to be getting a war‐job,’ she said with her little giggle. ‘Something where I’ll be doing something.’

  But Mrs Josser was still too much preoccupied to answer. She was planning to reply to Mr Veritter’s letter herself. And in the reply Mr Veritter was going to be given a straight piece of a wife’s mind.

  Chapter XCIII

  As it turned out, Mr Josser need not have worried about trains. When he came to inquire at the booking office he found that there were plenty of them. And as early as he could want. There was even one at ten minutes to six if he had really felt like it.

  Not that it was in the least necessary, all this rush. The train that Doris always caught, the 8.5, got to Liverpool Street in plenty of time, and going by anything earlier would simply have been silly. Besides, it was very pleasant travelling up with Doris. This morning it had been rather like the beginning of a holiday, pedalling through the pearly September morning to the station, Mr Josser on Uncle Henry’s green bicycle and Doris on her new one. The Jossers were all three of them cyclists nowadays. And the only thing that Mr Josser thought was a pity was that Mrs Josser and Doris should both have left it so late. Because, even though nowadays you paid two or three pounds more for the bicycle, all the bits that should have been bright and shiny were just plain black on the war‐time models.

  Of course it had all seemed rather strange this morning, waking up by the alarm clock and having to hurry through with his shaving. Mr Josser had got up first as usual to take Mrs Josser an early cup of tea. But when he reached the bedroom he found that she was dressed already. And that was significant. Because, it had been agreed between them that Doris should get herself off in the mornings. And Mr Josser had expected things to happen that way to‐day. But evidently in Mrs Josser’s mind the departure of the two of them was a bigger affair altogether. Something that would have to be handled personally.

  And, considering that she was still opposed to the whole notion of his going, she was certainly sparing no pains about it. With one eye on the presentation clock while he was eating his scrambled‐up dried eggs, she began questioning him. Had he remembered his scarf ? His gas‐mask? His office coat? His season‐ticket? From the way she was behaving it might have been a rather stupid and absent‐minded little schoolboy that she was getting off to school for the first time.

  And it was the same when she kissed him good‐bye. She asked if he’d remembered his handkerchief.

  Mr Josser was sitting in the corner of the carriage feeling important. Battlebury’s couldn’t get along without him. And he was somebody again. But it wasn’t all expectation. There were a lot of regrets as well. He was older – there was no denying the fact. Even the ride to the station had taken it out of him. And perhaps that was why he was feeling sort of flurried inside himself. As though moths had settled in his stomach. Whatever it was, he couldn’t settle down properly. As he glanced across the carriage he caught Doris’ eye
and she smiled back at him.

  ‘Looking forward to it, Dad?’ she asked.

  Mr Josser gave a slightly self‐conscious little grin.

  ‘I am rather,’ he admitted.

  He didn’t go on with the conversation because Doris had got her library book and he didn’t want to interrupt her. Besides, he was full of his own thoughts. Puzzling, unexpected thoughts. About Ted, for instance. And seeing Mrs Boon in the infirmary. And the night with Percy at the Camberwell Baths. And Uncle Henry’s last illness. And the holiday at Brighton with Mrs Josser. And Duke. And the procession to Whitehall with the perambulator. And the time Mr Puddy’s cupboard gave way. And Mrs Vizzard’s engagement. And Mr Squales. And Percy’s arrest… All muddled up together and out of order. He was going backwards through time. Not forward the way he should be.

  The carriage had been empty when they left Ditchfield. But it was filling up now at every station. After Epping there were people standing. And Mr Josser tried to give up his seat to a little City typist who was swaying about in front of him, her Daily Mirror in her hand. But the offer was refused. Rather indignantly refused. And thereafter she ignored him. Mr Josser sat looking out of the window, pondering. Either manners had changed since he had last been about in the rush‐hour. Or else he looked older and more fragile than he thought he did.

  The train by now had chugged and puffed its course to outer London, and they were poking their way through the smoke belt. Nosing along under a khaki‐grey canopy that stretched ten, twenty, thirty miles ahead of them. Any sentimental nonsense about pearly September mornings had been left somewhere in the country far behind. And so had the country. The houses here were packed up to the railway line, one against the other, like books on a library shelf. Inside the carriage perpetual twilight reigned. And the little City typist who had the air of an inverterate reader had to give up her penny picture paper and console herself with her memories.

  Then, as the train slackened speed, Mr Josser began gathering his things together. He was excited again. Eager and excited. It was like coming home from exile. He got down his attaché case and fastened the cord of his gas‐mask through the handle. Five minutes before they drew into the station, Mr Josser was ready to get out.

  As he did so, he remembered something. Remembered what it was that he had forgotten. Of all things to forget when he was re‐starting his professional life, he’d forgotten his fountain‐pen. It was in his old brown suit on the hook in the bedroom cupboard.

  Liverpool Street being what it is in the mornings, there was too much of a rush once they had got on to the platform to be able to say good‐bye really properly. There was no one, Doris included, who hadn’t cut things just about as fine as could be. And an uneasy feeling seemed to run through the entire crowd that, by allowing anybody else to get to the barrier first, jobs, pensions, bonuses, everything would be in jeopardy. The whole train‐load panicked.

  Before she left him, however, Doris managed to put her arm through Mr Josser’s for a moment.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Dad,’ she said. ‘Don’t overdo it.’

  Mr Josser gave that rather self‐conscious little grin of his again. ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ he said. ‘I shall be all right.’

  And that was all. For a moment, father and daughter formed a small stationary eddy in the forward swirl. Then Doris kissed him and ran upstairs to get her bus. Mr Josser was left alone to face the serious business of the day.

  Take care of himself, indeed! Mr Josser was rather hurt by that remark. He’d never felt fitter in his life.

  Mr Veritter hadn’t said exactly what his work was going to be, and Mr Josser was wondering whether he’d get his old accounts back. ‘D’ to ‘J’ had been his ledgers, and he didn’t fancy seeing other pens scratching about in them. Not that it wouldn’t be too late already. There wasn’t the same pride in penmanship nowadays. And Mr Josser was pretty sure that, if he searched, he’d find the ‘D’s’ to ‘J’s’ simply cluttered up with 9’s that looked like 7’s, and no double underlinings in red anywhere.

  It was pleasant to walk for a bit after sitting all hunched up in the train. Pleasant, but difficult. The gas‐mask, dangling over the side of the attaché case, kept on swinging round and bumping him. And it seemed strange to be about without his umbrella. But umbrellas are notoriously tricky things to get fixed satisfactorily on to bicycles. And before leaving home he’d given up the attempt as hopeless.

  His mind was still playing tricks on him on the bus‐ride. There was Ted again. Always Ted. And Bill bending over him and thrusting the syringe‐thing into his back. And Percy. But, for the most part, the little pictures that came tumbling out were from an earlier volume altogether. And considering the date of them, their age and brightness astonished him. He saw himself, for instance. Away back at the beginning nearly fifty years ago. Saw young Freddie Josser starting out on his career.

  And the odd thing was that he was still saying the same thing to himself that he had said then.

  ‘I hope I can give satisfaction,’ he kept thinking. ‘I hope I can hold it down.’

  He had just got off the bus when he stopped abruptly. And that was because the other side of the Row wasn’t there any more. The shop where he had bought Mrs Josser the shawl had simply vanished. And instead of the grey brick cliff‐face of offices that had been stolidly sooting itself up for generations, there was now an open vista with the offices of Creek Lane on the far side. Creek Lane itself seemed to be the same as ever. Except for the windows. In place of them, there was now a rather mixed display of wood, cardboard and a kind of thick‐skinned cellophane that might have been used for wrapping up monster chocolate‐boxes.

  He wasn’t given any time to think about it, however, because as soon as he got his foot on to the pavement of Creek Lane he heard his name spoken.

  ‘Why, if it isn’t Mr Josser!’

  It was a female voice that had addressed him. And turning round he found himself facing the elderly Miss Unsett. An undemonstrative woman in the ordinary way – a lifetime’s absorption in pro‐formas had flattened out all the more feminine curves in her character – she was temporarily thrown off her balance by his reappearance. Miss Unsett was blushing.

  And so was Mr Josser. Or very nearly. After all, it was something – coming back to London like this, one of the eight million again, and being recognised before he’d even got to his own office.

  But it was nothing to what was waiting for him in the office. He shook hands ten times in five minutes. And every one told him that he didn’t look a day older. Mr Josser only wished that he could have said the same about Mr Veritter. But Mr Veritter’s pale, whippet‐face was more peaky and drawn‐out than ever. Even his white collar appeared to have been bought for a bigger breed of dog altogether. It was evident that the bombs and the black‐out, coming on top of the call‐up, had been getting Mr Veritter down pretty badly. Either that, or the whippet‐strain in him had won and he was in for a bout of distemper.

  As soon as Mr Veritter had finished saying how glad he was to see him, he took him into the inner office – the one with the word YRATERCES written across the glass‐door when viewed from Mr Veritter’s side – and unburdened himself. It was too terrible, he said. Simply terrible. They were two men short already and Mr Parsons was due to leave on Friday. Mr Veritter had been there till nine and ten at night just trying to keep his head above water.

  It fairly broke Mr Josser’s heart as he listened. In the first place, it was painful enough in itself. And secondly it was the first time that any one in Battlebury’s had ever confided in him.

  ‘What… what do I start on?’ he asked as soon as there was a pause.

  Mr Verriter wrinkled up his nose and ran his eye down a memorandum pad on his desk in front of him.

  ‘The L’s are behind,’ he said. ‘And the M’s. There’s Lambert’s and Maplerose both outstanding.’

  Mr Josser hadn’t moved.

  ‘Are the D’s to J all right?’ he aske
d.

  Mr Veritter looked at his memorandum pad again.

  ‘There’s trouble in the E’s,’ he said. ‘Edwards & Son are disputing.’

  ‘Edwards & Son!’

  Mr Josser had looked after Edwards & Son himself for over twenty‐five years. And during the whole run of that quarter‐century there had never been so much as a bicker. A dispute with the Edwards, either son or father, was as unpleasant as a row in his own family.

  ‘Do you mind if I go over it?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps it’s in the brought‐forward.’

  His voice trembled a little as he spoke. It all seemed too good to be true. He didn’t know about the rest of them yet. But he’d got the E to Egg volume back all right.

  He had just taken it down from the shelf when Mr Battlebury arrived. And that was how it was on the second occasion, the second in all those years, when Mr Battlebury tried to shake hands with him, that Mr Josser had his arms full and couldn’t do anything about it. But that didn’t stop Mr Battlebury. He had recognised the wisp of grey hair that showed up over the top of the ledger. Recognised that, and the striped trousers protruding underneath. The ledger walking towards him had suddenly become human.

  ‘Why, if it isn’t Mr Josser,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘E to Egg’ gave a sudden lurch.

  ‘Good… good morning, sir,’ the voice behind them said.

  ‘Glad to have you back, Josser,’ Mr Battlebury told him. ‘We all are.’

  And just to show how warm and friendly every one was feeling towards him, Mr Battlebury clapped Mr Josser on the back. It was a good hearty slap and Mr Josser felt himself letting go. He sagged involuntarily and then steadied himself against a chair back.

  ‘I’m… I’m glad to be back, sir,’ he said simply.

  There was a brief pause. Mr Battlebury seemed to be thinking about something else.

  ‘Mind you don’t go overdoing it now you are here,’ he remarked at last, as though Mr Josser’s return had been his own idea entirely. ‘Take it easy, remember. No late hours.’