Sons and Daughters

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Me,’ said Paul.

  ‘That grin on your face labels you,’ said Lulu, ‘as a male who kids himself he’s superior.’

  ‘Still, we’re in the groove, you and me,’ said Paul, ‘we’re on an equal footing.’

  ‘Is that a fact? Fill me in,’ said Lulu.

  ‘You’re as superior as I am,’ said Paul.

  ‘You’re killing me,’ said Lulu, and chucked the satchel at him.

  Chapter Ten

  Before that day was out, the bales of nylon were safely lodged in the stockroom at Sammy’s factory at Belsize Park, north-west London. Gertie Roper, chargehand and faithful servant before the Second World War, all through the war and now post-war, was getting on a bit, but jumped about like a two-year-old at the prospect of the factory turning out nylon stockings.

  ‘But we got to have a machine first,’ she said to Tommy, factory manager.

  ‘All in hand, Gertie,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Vell, Gertie my dear, ain’t I pointed Sammy at vhat is just the job?’ said Mr Greenberg, whose stepsons had cheerfully borne the burden of hefting the bales into the factory from the ‘Greenberg & Sons’ furniture van, once in ancient times an LGOC omnibus. ‘As Tommy says, all in hand, ain’t it?’

  ‘And ain’t I now a happy woman?’ said Gertie, whose husband Bert was assistant manager and maintenance man. ‘How did we get hold of such large bales, Mister Tommy?’

  ‘Fair and square, wasn’t it, Eli?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Sammy’s exact vords,’ said Mr Greenberg.

  ‘Well, who’s going to ask questions?’ said Gertie. ‘Not me. What about the girls, Mister Tommy?’ She was referring to the machinists and seamstresses.

  ‘They’ll all want the nylon stockings?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Most will, specially the younger ones,’ said Gertie.

  ‘Well, as long as their legs qualify,’ said Tommy. ‘Tell ’em I’ll make a leg inspection last thing Friday afternoon.’

  ‘Don’t say things like that, Mister Tommy,’ said Gertie, ‘or you’ll find ’em all in your office last thing Friday afternoon, with their skirts up on account of your man appeal, like. So I ’ope you’re joking.’

  ‘I’m joking,’ said Tommy hastily. ‘Take orders from the girls, Gertie. Eli, that’s a bad cough you’ve got.’

  ‘Vell, so I have just now, Tommy, so I have,’ said Mr Greenberg, and put his cough away. A throaty chuckle took its place.

  ‘Stay for a cup of tea, Eli, and your sons,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Ah, ain’t I had a thousand kind cups of tea from you and your family?’ said Mr Greenberg.

  ‘Have one more,’ said Tommy.

  Over the tea in Tommy’s office, with Mr Greenberg’s dark, curly-haired stepsons present, the long-established rag-and-bone merchant mentioned that he, his wife and their sons, Michal and Jacob, were going to Israel next spring to see what their people had made of their independent state, and to allow Michal and Jacob to work at a kibbutz for a year.

  ‘You’ll think about staying, you and your family?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Michal and Jacob, they vill please themselves,’ said Mr Greenberg. The young men, sturdy and muscular, smiled. ‘But my good Hannah and me, vhy, ain’t our home here among the people of London? No, no, Tommy, London is our home and alvays vill be. Vhat vould I do in Israel if I could not be on business call for Sammy or say shalom to you and Gertie from time to time?’

  ‘This country’s still broke,’ said Tommy.

  ‘So the Government don’t have money in the bank? Is that something to make us veep?’ Mr Greenberg shook his head. ‘Ve should all be proud, Tommy, that it spent its last farthing to fight the Devil and his black angels along with the people of the vun they call Uncle Sam. But it is still the same country to vhich my thinking father brought his family many years ago from the pogroms of Russia. I kiss his memory for that, don’t I? Your people are my people, Tommy, and I don’t ask for more. Except a kind refill from the pot?’

  ‘After that speech, Father, you should toast yourself in vodka,’ said Michal.

  ‘No vodka,’ smiled Tommy.

  ‘He should worry?’ said Jacob. ‘Tea will do, won’t it?’

  Gertie’s voice was heard in the passage.

  ‘Here, what d’yer think you’re doing of, nearly walking over me? What d’yer want? Here, leave off—Oh, yer saucy sod.’

  The office door flew back, and in the doorway stood Large Lump.

  ‘Where’s Jammy Adams?’ he growled.

  ‘Next time, knock before you enter,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Who the bleedin’ fanackapan are you?’

  ‘I’m Tommy Adams.’

  ‘Brother, are yer?’ said Large Lump, making the office look half its normal size.

  ‘I am,’ said Tommy. ‘What’s your business?’

  ‘Mr Ford wants his bales back.’

  ‘We don’t have any bales belonging to Mr Ford,’ said Tommy, who knew from Sammy what had happened at Edmonton. ‘So long, mate. Close the door after you.’

  ‘Don’t make trouble, faceache, or yer factory might fall down,’ said Large Lump, indifferent to whether Mr Greenberg and his sons were present or not. ‘Just come quiet and talk to Mr Ford.’

  ‘Shove off,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Gawdblimey O’Reilly, the trouble some people give me,’ said Large Lump. ‘Listen, if you don’t come and talk to Mr Ford, things’ll get noisy and there’ll be bloodstains.’

  ‘Sounds messy,’ said Tommy, and got up. ‘Stay there, Eli, I’ll only be a tick.’

  ‘Vell, all right, Tommy,’ said Mr Greenberg. Tommy left with Large Lump. ‘Sons of your mother,’ said Mr Greenberg, ‘out you go.’

  ‘We should get our heads split?’ said Michal.

  ‘Hurtful, ain’t it?’ said Jacob, and exited with his brother.

  Tommy, out on the factory forecourt with Large Lump on his heels, saw a van and a car parked inside the high wire perimeter. At the open gates stood the Fat Man.

  ‘Who’s this specimen?’ wheezed Fat Man.

  ‘Jammy Adams’s brother,’ said Large Lump.

  ‘Tell him to bring out my bales of nylon.’

  ‘Bring ’em out,’ said Large Lump to Tommy.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Tommy, with Michal and Jacob looking on from the factory entrance, ‘what makes you think I was born yesterday?’

  ‘You’re trouble,’ said Large Lump, looking disgusted. ‘I knew it first time you opened yer cakehole. Mr Ford, he’s trouble.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll do him and his bleedin’ brother a favour,’ said Fat Man, looking like a dressed-up balloon on short legs. ‘Tell him I’ll give him a fiver each for the bales. That’ll take care of his trouble.’

  ‘Mr Ford says—’

  ‘I heard,’ said Tommy caustically, ‘and if I did hand the bales over – if – I’d want fifty quid each for them.’

  ‘Let him see my back-up,’ wheezed Fat Man.

  Large Lump cracked a thumb and forefinger, and out of the car stepped the back-up, comprised of three more heavies.

  ‘That’s real trouble,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Tell this squirt we’ll help ourselves to my bales of nylon,’ said Fat Man.

  ‘See here, squirt,’ said Large Lump, ‘like Mr Ford says, we’re coming in. Shift yer pins or you’ll get run over.’

  Tommy turned his head. Michal and Jacob were still at the entrance, and behind them were Gertie and a crowd of machinists. Mr Greenberg’s stepsons looked sturdy enough, and Gertie and her girls formed a barrier, but Tommy knew he didn’t want mayhem and bloodletting.

  ‘You mean to commit daylight robbery?’ he said to Fat Man. ‘I ain’t in favour, so oblige me by floating off to your balloon shed.’

  ‘Dear, dear,’ sighed Fat Man, and gave Large Lump a nod.

  ‘Right, guv,’ said Large Lump, and advanced with the three heavies. Michal looked at Jacob, Jacob looked at Michal.

  ‘We should worry?’ said Michal.
/>   ‘No worry,’ said Jacob, and they moved forward to meet Large Lump and his heavies. Tommy’s eyes opened wide at the sudden vision of flying bodies and kicking feet. Gertie and her girls shrieked. Large Lump, bawling, was flat on his back from a kick in his stomach. A heavy was rolling about, hollering blue murder. Michal and Jacob were whirling, leaping and kicking. Down went another heavy, gasping, and down went the last one, his ribs painfully bruised.

  Large Lump came up, still bawling. He rushed at Michal. Michal effected a swift, dancing sidestep, spun round, took off and delivered the sole of his right shoe to the small of Large Lump’s back. Large Lump pitched forward, howling. He’s cross, thought Tommy, and his heavies don’t like it, either. I think I’m watching a performance. What is it, judo or something? Don’t think I’ll interfere.

  The heavies, unable to get to grips with Mr Greenberg’s fast-moving stepsons, were pitching, staggering, falling. To give them their due, they kept coming back for more, and so did Large Lump, to show how they earned their tax-free handouts from the Fat Man, who was looking on, his blubber quivering with outrage.

  Mr Greenberg joined Gertie and her open-mouthed machinists.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Gertie.

  ‘Vell, Gertie my dear,’ said Mr Greenberg, ‘it’s vhat some people call karate.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Vell, you might say punishing,’ smiled Mr Greenberg.

  ‘Oh, me ’appy heart,’ gasped Gertie joyfully, ‘I never seen nothing I liked better.’

  With flying kicks and fist-thumping body blows, Michal and Jacob finally laid the opposition low. Large Lump and the heavies lay groaning and twitching. Fat Man’s red face was purple, and Gertie was sure the balloon was going to burst.

  ‘Thanks, lads,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Pleasure, Mister Tommy,’ said Michal.

  ‘No blood, I notice,’ said Tommy.

  ‘You would like to see some?’ offered Jacob.

  ‘Not on your nelly,’ said Tommy, ‘I like things just as they are.’

  Large Lump lurched to his feet, and his battered heavies came up one by one.

  The Fat Man said from the back of his outraged tonsils, ‘You useless fairies, now see what you’ve done, cost me my nylon. I hate the bloody lot of you, and you too, Tommy Adams.’

  ‘Stay there,’ called Tommy, and turned to Michal and Jacob. ‘I’ve got a feeling he wants to meet you.’

  ‘He’s big, Mister Tommy,’ said Michal.

  ‘So?’ said Jacob.

  ‘Sure thing, let’s go meet him,’ said Michal.

  The Fat Man waddled in frantic haste to the car. Large Lump, spitting iron filings, followed on with the heavies, one of whom climbed into the driving seat of the van. Large Lump and the other two joined Fat Man in the car.

  Van and car, grinding through the open gates onto the road, disappeared in what Tommy later told Vi was a cloud of the Fat Man’s steam.

  ‘They’re not staying for tea?’ said Jacob.

  ‘Pity,’ said Michal.

  ‘Where did you two learn to fight like that?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘In the Army, from an instructor in a Commando unit,’ said Michal.

  ‘What is it, judo?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘Karate,’ said Jacob.

  ‘Well, good on yer, lads, I like it,’ said Tommy, and went back into the factory with Eli’s stepsons, where Gertie and her girls received them like heroes, and the younger ones asked if they could feel their muscles.

  ‘Would they like some more tea, Mister Tommy?’ asked Gertie. ‘With a slice of cake?’

  ‘If I might speak for them, yes,’ said Mr Greenberg. ‘A celebration, ain’t it?’

  Tommy phoned the Camberwell office after Mr Greenberg and his stepsons had left. He spoke to Sammy, giving him details of the incident. Sammy listened with a happy ear to Tommy’s description of how Michal and Jacob had dealt with the opposition.

  ‘I’m admiring of that kind of talent, Tommy,’

  ‘I liked it meself,’ said Tommy, ‘but don’t let’s start laughing yet. Just in case.’

  ‘Got you,’ said Sammy. ‘Just in case the Fat Man thinks of something different.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tommy, ‘so talk to Boots.’

  ‘Listen, I can handle problems,’ said Sammy. ‘Not like Boots can,’ said Tommy. ‘Talk to him.’

  ‘Now listen—’

  ‘Talk to Boots.’

  Sammy put the phone down, sat back and rubbed his chin. Enter, a lush-looking lady with magnificent black hair, melting brown eyes and what some poetical wallahs would have called a form divine.

  ‘Sammy?’ said Mrs Rachel Goodman, a wartime widow and the mother-in-law of Lizzy and Ned’s younger son Edward. She was also the company secretary. ‘Deep in thought, are we?’

  ‘It’s like this, Rachel,’ said Sammy, giving her a thoughtful glance and noting that, at forty-six, she was still a fine figure of a female woman. ‘The Fat Man’s bounced back again.’

  ‘Yes, Sammy, I know,’ said Rachel. ‘You told me this morning what happened at Edmonton yesterday.’

  ‘I’m talking about today,’ said Sammy, and quoted from what Tommy had told him over the phone. Rachel laughed.

  ‘Mr Greenberg’s boys saw them off, and the Fat Man too?’ she said. ‘And they used what?’

  ‘Tommy said feet and fists, and they called it katari,’ said Sammy.

  ‘I think you mean karate,’ said Rachel.

  ‘No difference,’ said Sammy. A grin showed. ‘Well, not to Fat Man’s gorillas. Point is, is he going to try again?’

  ‘Not if Michal and Jacob are close by,’ said Rachel.

  ‘I think I’ll talk to Boots,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Yes, do that, Sammy.’

  ‘Of course, I could handle it myself,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Still, it won’t hurt to talk to Boots,’ said Rachel, ‘especially as he knows about yesterday.’

  ‘What we need is an answer for tomorrow,’ said Sammy, and went to see Boots.

  Boots listened, and his smile, that still seemed to be permanently lurking, came to broad life at hearing how Michal and Jacob Greenberg had performed, and how they’d acquired their punishing expertise.

  ‘Did any of us know they were in a Commando unit, Sammy?’

  ‘I didn’t know meself,’ said Sammy, ‘but there you are, nobody ever tells me anything.’

  Boots laughed.

  ‘Watch out, Sammy,’ he said, ‘you’re sounding like Chinese Lady.’

  ‘Who’s laughing about that?’ asked Sammy. ‘I’m not, I’m fond of our dear old ma and her sayings.’

  ‘Join the club,’ said Boots.

  Sammy fidgeted, but there it was, you couldn’t shake Boots, he took everything in his stride, good news, awkward news and serious news. The Fat Man could get spitefully serious, and he’d be boiling and steaming after watching Michal and Jacob wipe the floor with his heavies.

  ‘Come on, Boots, what’s the right answer?’ he asked.

  ‘Talk to Eli,’ said Boots. ‘Find out if he can release Michal and Jacob. If so, take them on. It’ll be the factory the Fat Man will go for.’

  ‘Blind Amy,’ said Sammy, ‘he did that years ago to our original factory. He torched it.’

  ‘It’ll be a night job again,’ said Boots, ‘but my old Great War West Kents are past active service now. Providing Eli agrees, see if Michal and Jacob will stand factory guard at nights. If they will, pay handsomely.’

  ‘Handsomely means adding considerable to overheads,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Worth every penny, Sammy. It’ll see the Fat Man off for good if his torch-bearers get flattened again. Or you could, of course, alert the local police.’

  ‘Nothing doing,’ said Sammy. ‘They’ll ask questions, and you know I like to keep our business problems confidential.’

  ‘Talk to Eli, then,’ said Boots.

  Which Sammy did over the phone, quoting Boots and his suggestions, and his old
business acquaintance said, ‘Vhy ain’t Boots ever been our Prime Minister?’

  ‘Not being fond of politics, he ducked it,’ said Sammy.

  ‘But vhat a pity, ain’t it, Sammy?’

  ‘Listen, Eli old cock, like I’ve mentioned before, Boots has been the family’s Lord-I-Am ever since he started his grammar school education,’ said Sammy. ‘Do we want him to be God-I-Am, which he would be as Prime Minister? We’d all have to make appointments to see him. Me, Sammy Adams, making appointments to see me own brother? My importance as a businessman would hit the bottom of the Serpentine, and the kids would row boats over it. Besides, I had the same idea about Michal and Jacob in mind myself. At least, I think I did. Well, I’d have come round to it. Anyway, what about the specific proposition?’

  ‘Consider it done, Sammy,’ said Eli.

  ‘Boots and me, and our families will be going to Cornwall for our fortnight’s holiday on Saturday,’ said Sammy, ‘so I’ll talk to him and you can confer with him, eh?’

  ‘Of course, Sammy,’ said Mr Greenberg, ‘and I vill tell my sons to come and see you tomorrow morning, and I vill also tell them to do as Boots commands.’

  ‘Here, hold on,’ said Sammy, ‘I do the commanding of staff.’

  ‘Vell, so you do, Sammy, so you do,’ said Eli. ‘I vill tell them that. But give Boots my regards, von’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know how it happens,’ said Sammy, ‘but every so often I get a feeling I’m not Sammy Adams, I’m Billy Muggins, the office boy.’

  ‘Not you, Sammy,’ said Eli, chuckling as he rang off.

  ‘Well, sod me,’ said Sammy to the silent phone, ‘he’s laughing at me. All right, from now on me business cards will be in the name of Daft Dick.’

  It was at this time that the Mayfair-style girl who had bought RAF shirts from Sammy’s Walworth store arrived in Cornwall with her family. She was the daughter of a rich City stockbroker, a member of Lloyd’s.

  Chapter Eleven

  With the twins in bed that evening, Polly and Boots were relaxing in their living room, waiting to switch on the television for BBC’s nine o’clock news. BBC had pioneered this visual medium, the first of its kind in the world, but had suspended it all through the war. Pre-war, the images had lacked sharpness. The post-war reintroduction produced welcome clarity.