Just the Memory of Love

by Peter Rimmer

  The first restaurant manager went to the phone to call the Zambezi Bar and check her previous stated place of employment. By the time he came back from a garbled outburst, the pretty girl with the nice nipples was nowhere to be seen. Finally, back in Soho, Penny avoided the girlie clubs and with consummate luck found herself a job in Greek Street at the Green Dolphin, the new manager being well aware that the almost fifty-year-old Johnny Pike liked young girls with big nipples and a tight arse that fitted their jeans to perfection. When this one walked in, he had noticed, the cheeks talked to each other. Penny had seen a paunched old man sitting on his own at the end of the bar who had taken her in from bare feet to protruding nipples with a practised stare that left her feeling naked. Penny, with her mind now concentrated on the man who could give her a job, did not see the old lecher give a nod of his head. Johnny Pike was always looking for something new to keep him amused.

  For three days she worked as she was in her bare feet which no one seemed to notice in the rush: few of the men were able to drop their eyes below her navel. She worked the day shift, and every afternoon walked the three miles back to the flat in Chelsea, waiting for her first pay packet to find a place of her own. Tips from the first day had been enough to buy a pair of sandals. From going barefoot in Africa most of her life, the soles of her feet were hard, but not, she thought, hard enough to stop a broken glass on the floor lacerating her feet.

  On the fourth day, the paunched old man was back at his seat at the end of the bar. As Penny worked her tables she could feel the old lecher’s eyes following her every move. The casual nipple ‘pervers’ worried her not at all but the old man on his own at the end of the bar had an aura of evil. She knew when he left without turning her head. The frantic lunchtime trade went on and by the time she was ready to leave and walk back to Chelsea, the bad vibrations had gone and been forgotten. That afternoon, to make herself less obvious, she used the day’s good tips to buy herself a bra and two pairs of panties. The cook had given her two Cornish pasties to take home and the evening was warm and wonderful.

  Johnny Pike had never married as he had never found it necessary. For all the years of his adult life, women came to him, were seduced and sent on their way. He worked on the principle that women enjoyed sex as much as he did and the affair, long or brief, was mutually satisfying. He never once looked at it as the best years of a girl’s life, the seven or ten years, sometimes only two or three, when a woman was in control of the sexual attraction. He never thought of the good-time girls ending up on their own with little money or no prospects unless they had used those years wisely to find a productive man, give him three or more children and a mortgage so she would have his support for the rest of her life. Johnny Pike had never had the inclination to bring up children. In fact, he didn’t even like children and understood the Victorian dictum that children should be seen and not heard. His friend of over thirty years, Byron Langton, maybe had the best of both worlds with his wife and children in the country and the rest of his life left exactly as before. Old Jack Pike, Johnny Pike’s father, had died without seeing a grandson and the old man’s last words were the only disturbing note in an otherwise perfect way of life. ‘What’s the point, so to speak, in cheating your way to wealth and limitless riches if you’ve got no one to leave it to?’ Johnny was an only child.

  Old habits die hard and Johnny preferred drinking in the Green Dolphin to the smarter bars in Mayfair, and once a month he met with his friend Byron Langton to have a beer together and talk of younger times. Johnny, who had started Byron on his business way, was proud of his friend and prouder still of himself owning a major share in Langton Merchant Bank. The idea of making money out of other people’s greed had always appealed to Johnny Pike, especially when so much greed had been unleashed by bleeding liberals bemoaning the fate of the Third World. Often he and Byron chuckled at the real result of democracy in the world of Britain’s old colonies in Africa. Apart from the people starving across the Dark Continent, multiplying at a pace unseen in history, everyone seemed happy. The governments were black, not colonial, the business of digging up the minerals was going better than usual and the Western powers no longer had the cost of running the colonies. If the people now starved, it was not the Western powers’ problem. In the years since the Europeans had thrown out their colonies on a high of political correctness, the people of Europe had become rich beyond their wildest dreams. The money was in the products that came from the raw materials, the products of high technology and that money by and large stayed in Europe and America. Johnny had never once been to Africa and had no intention of visiting the continent any time soon.

  Johnny had tried to reach the Green Dolphin before the new girl went off duty but business had kept him: running the soft pornography business was time-consuming and with television showing some of the same and competition being legitimate, the sleaze business was not what it used to be. In the new liberal London, everything was out in the open. Men cuddled men in the park. Gamblers gambled through the night. Whores competed with amateurs from all over the world. Dirty pictures were sold on the news stand. Drugs were supposed to be illegal but half the swinging members of the town were permanently high. Anything went so long as it was politically correct with a political lobby to keep it correct and frighten vote-seeking politicians into line. Sipping his first beer while waiting for Byron, Johnny Pike wondered if he should not become a politician. The fun had definitely gone out of the sleaze business once the politicians made it legal, and he wondered if the drug business would one day suffer the same fate. Being a romantic with a distinct perverted quirk, Johnny Pike often thought he would have liked to live in America during the days of prohibition when the morally righteous politicians had made it illegal for a man to take a drink.

  Johnny watched his friend push through the door and smiled to himself: there was even a waddle to Byron’s walk with all the fat stuck to the inside of his legs.

  “Give me another beer,” he said to the barman and turned to greet his friend.

  Byron Langton was distinctly jaded. He took the beer and lifted it to his mouth without saying a word. There was something about old friendship when it didn’t require an explanation. Byron had eaten too much rich food at lunchtime, entertaining a potential new client, and the heartburn was physically clutching his chest. The two antacid tablets had not taken effect and the beer burnt as it went down his throat. The one thing Byron Langton hated was stop-start drinking. He believed in either getting drunk and sleeping it off or not starting at all. The two men at lunchtime were twenty years his junior and their livers were stronger. They were preparing another revolution in East Africa and needed some working capital. Byron summed them up in his private mind as right royal little shits and thanked his lucky stars that he didn’t live in the country they were about to throw into turmoil. They were both Marxist, professed dedicated interest in the proletariat, asked him to raise ten million pounds sterling for the cause, and promised to sell their country’s raw materials through Langton Merchant Bank provided the bank paid ten per cent of the FOB price to a nominated account in Switzerland. The two men were spending their money before they even came to power and Byron marvelled at the word of mouth that had led them to Langton Merchant Bank with the knowledge of such words as ‘Free On Board’. The eldest one by a few months, as judged by Byron, was a major, his partner-to-be a sergeant, the one having worked out the finances for the commissioned officers to come in on their revolt and the other the NCOs. Byron had learnt from experience not to laugh at bizarre propositions and had phoned Heathcliff Mortimer after the lunch and told him to pack his bags for Africa and find out what chances the major and his sergeant had of pulling off their military coup. There was big risk and big profit in Africa.

  The second pull at the beer went down easier and the sucked tablets belatedly began to compete with his heartburn. Two more people came into the Green Dolphin and sat at the opposite end of the bar.

  “Not a good day,”
suggested Johnny, finally breaking the silence.

  “What makes me laugh is they like doing business with the British because we are honest.” Johnny refrained from asking what he was talking about. “We just make it legal.”

  “I think it was Cromwell who said it was only treason if you lost.”

  “Johnny, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Power. Anything’s legal if you get away with it … There’s a new girl started on the day shift. Just your type, Byron.”

  “How do you know my type? This beer tastes flat.”

  “Because your type is my type, and she had my hormones dancing on the ceiling… She comes from Africa.”

  “You never went for blacks.”

  “Her father’s a missionary.”

  “Johnny, you’re a pervert. Missionary daughters! I suppose she’s nineteen.”

  “Yes she is. With nipples half an inch long. She doesn’t wear a bra.”

  “You think these two blacks would be happy with lunch but they want to see London’s nightlife. Said they want to fuck a white girl. The things I bloody well do to make money. The bloody world’s crazy. All the blond Swedes and Germans rush off to Kenya to fuck the black whores and when the blacks get over here, they want to fuck ours. Why can’t we all be satisfied with our own women?”

  Johnny left that one hanging in the air and ordered two more beers. The trouble with both of them, he thought, was boredom. They had done it all before. Even the new girl had not taken Byron’s mind off the perversions of his business.

  “You got a club to suggest I can take my clients tonight? I’m sick of that one in Hay Street. All I want to do is go home, get some sleep and wake up without this heartburn… What’s the girl’s name?”

  “Penny something,” said Johnny.

  “I’d call my daughter Penny only Fiona thinks Penny’s common. It’s her bloody father. He likes the sound of Penelope running off his tongue. The man’s a bloody snob… Did you buy this beer? Cheers. Barman, give us both a chaser. It’s going to be another long night.”

  After three successive nights of the evil eye, Penny Bains asked who was the paunched old man who usually sat at the end of the bar facing the restaurant tables. The manager had changed her shift to the evening, increasing her expenses by a taxi fare to Chelsea at night. The tips were much the same but more than she expected when she took the job, judged on her experience at the Zambezi Bar.

  “Johnny Pike?” said Penny, after questioning the manager. “He owns this place? He was in the bar at my interview. Was he the reason I got the job?”

  “He’s a very wealthy man,” said the manager.

  “I don’t care how much money he’s got. He’s fat and old and gives me the creeps. I can feel him looking at me with my back turned. Look, I may be young and new to the world but tell that old pervert to keep his eyes off me, let alone anything else. I’m a waitress, not a whore.”

  “How did you learn all these words on a mission thousands of miles from nowhere?”

  “From books. Anything you want to know is in books. I’m going to be a writer. Please, do us all a favour. Tell that old bugger to keep his mind in check. There are more bloody predators in London than lions in Barotseland and there are a lot of bloody lions around Mongu.”

  “Mongu?”

  “My home. Look it up on the map if you can find a dot small enough. Central Africa. You’ll find Mongu in Central Africa… My tables are getting agitated. Excuse me.”

  Half an hour later, Johnny Pike took up his seat at the end of the bar and was joined by the manager who sat with the owner for five minutes before getting on with his job. Penny watched them from the corner of her eye. When she cleared her third table she turned with the dirty plates to take them into the kitchen, a five-pound tip in her pocket. Johnny Pike caught her eye, smiled and winked and for the rest of the evening took not the slightest notice of her.

  When she left to go home, her first pay packet was wedged in the front pocket of her jeans and no mention had been made of her losing her job.

  Heathcliff Mortimer had left the previous day for East Africa, leaving instructions for her to write and under no circumstances look for somewhere permanent to stay until he returned from his trip. The night shift at the restaurant gave her the whole day to write and read.

  She made a cup of tea before sitting down to count her money. Inside the brown envelope was a note which she opened first. ‘A man never goes where he is not wanted, a lesson I have learnt throughout my life.’ The note was signed by Johnny Pike and when she counted the money, it was exactly double what she expected. Many years later she was to look back and realise that the note was the beginning of her memory bank, the bank that she would use to write her stories: nothing in life was ever predictable. Even before Heathcliff Mortimer returned from Africa, she was talking comfortably to Johnny Pike and never once did he make the slightest pass.

  Five weeks after leaving, Heath returned to his flat, exhausted. Penny saw he had lost weight. They smiled happily at seeing each other.

  “Penny, pour an old man a drink. I’m too old for chasing around Africa and the new rape of the place makes me sick. You can’t believe the corruption where I just came from. First thing, of course, the president made himself president for life. That’s a prerequisite for staying alive as every one of them murders his way to power… A little more Southern Comfort and not so much ice. Thank you. It’s nice to have someone to chat to at the end of a trip… The man I went to write about has put a ring of steel around his palace, and I mean a palace. He has a taster to test his food and more treasure out of the country than Hitler. All the mineral royalties go to the president paid through contracts with American and French multinationals while the people scratch their living from the soil, their lifestyles little changed from the dawn of history. Foolishly, the president for life has not paid enough of the loot to his soldiers who now think they can do better on their own. So they will kill the despot and steal his throne, the one he had made in France for five million US dollars. The new man in waiting, currently in a safe haven across the river where his own tribe is more numerous in the neighbouring state, has evoked the interest of the West by calling for free and fair elections. The man, of course, is a communist, but he needs all the arms and money he can get to force his way into power. Mark my words, once in power he will find a new way to make himself president for life, like Mugabe in Zimbabwe with his one-party state, a party that no one will dare to compete with if they want a job. Across every divide the Americans and Russians face off against each other, each scared shitless that the other will gain exclusive control of Africa’s minerals. So the people starve… Now, be a little darling and pour another drink. Then I want to see everything you have written while I was away.”

  The following Monday, Penny found a room of her own. Heath needed his own place to think and write. Men like Heathcliff Mortimer, Penny had worked out, lived alone because they wished to live alone and Penny, from her own experience, understood his need for solitude. When he needed company, he went to a bar and left when the company grew boring. She judged he was not a man who had to rely on other people.

  The routine became written in stone. Five nights a week she went straight home and slept for eight hours. The first hour in the morning was spent thinking, the next two writing, the next an hour in the park if it wasn’t raining, the rest reading newspapers, news magazines and books, before walking to the Green Dolphin to work the night shift. In Africa, Penny, with the help of Heathcliff Mortimer, taught herself to write. Within six months she had written her first novel. Heath asked Fiona Langton to read the manuscript and received a look of disapproval.

  “New writers are too expensive to promote,” she told Heath. “A writer has to be marketable, preferably famous before they write a book. They have to be able to self-promote, which I doubt would be the case for a missionary’s daughter. Really, Heath, at your age.”

  “Why won’t you read it?”


  “I wouldn’t waste my time.”

  Penny sent the manuscript to every fiction publisher in England with the same result. No one was in the slightest bit interested and had Heath not told her the book was well worth reading, she would either have committed suicide or given up writing for the rest of her life. As the second year of the terrible African drought began, she completed her second African novel with the same result.

  “It’s better than the first. Much better,” said Heath. “Write another book.”

  “I’m sick of waiting tables. I want to be an author.”

  “You are an author, Penny. You just haven’t been paid.”

  “What the hell do I do to get paid?”

  “Write another book.”

  It was soon after receiving Johnny Pike’s note in her pay packet the previous summer that she had met Byron Langton. If Byron had bothered to keep up with the life of Hilary Bains, through his marriage and children, he might have asked if there was any connection. He knew the young Hilary had gone off to Africa, which he considered at the time a good thing as he felt the boy was sponging off the family. Once during a visit to Langton Manor he heard mention of the name but as Hilary was of no interest or use to Byron, he paid no attention.