King Dido

by Alexander Baron

  Yet as is the way of things each step prevented his mind from working and carried him towards the deed. He felt a great relief when Cockeye stopped opposite the entrance of a Penny Bazaar. His first thought now was: it’s not real pinching, only nicking, a Penny Bazaar. In and out, that’s all.

  The thought was followed by a spasm of fear — for mum’s twenty-two shillings; and even as he felt the spasm, it was transformed into an unbearable, irresistible thrill. His mind couldn’t work any more; the inside of his head was a furnace of excitement. His heart was beating hard but steady. He went in after Cockeye and he was now not a thinking young man but a growing cub on the prowl; all necessary instincts and faculties working, nothing else.

  He took his eyes off Cockeye. Mustn’t watch Cockeye. Watch the counters, the girls, the shoppers who swirled into concealing clumps. He stopped at a counter and no face was looking his way. He picked up a pencil with an india-rubber in a little metal sheath on one end. No one was looking. It popped up his sleeve. At once he picked up another pencil and regarded it critically. As a shopgirl went past, her glance taking him in, he put it down and walked steadily out of the shop.

  Cockeye was waiting by the barrow. They started off and turned into a side street. From inside his jacket Cockeye pulled out a large scrubbing brush. In the sport of nicking, it was less the value than the size of the trophy which counted.

  Shonny produced his pencil. Cockeye, disgustedly, “Oh, fuck me, a bleed’n pencil!”

  “I nicked it, didn’ I?”

  “Fuckin’ kid.”

  “What I wanted. Nothin’ else there I wanted.”

  “Bleed’n kid. Bleed’n windy like your brother Dido.”

  Shonny’s knuckles hit Cockeye’s teeth. In the second a return punch sent Shonny reeling back against the barrow. Blood trickled from a nostril. He squared up but Cockeye did not come on. Shonny did not go at him again. A spurt of recollection, fear for his mother’s money, restrained him.

  Cockeye jeered, “Teach you. You an’ your bastard brothers.”

  He sauntered off, and Shonny yelled after him, as if a victor, “Show you.”

  Before the bleeding stopped his handkerchief was soaked and there was a stain on his muffler. His face hurt and so did his back where he had gone against the barrow. All the same, he went home without any sense of defeat, having performed once more his share of the initiations and tests which governed and sometimes destroyed the lives of the young.

  His mother sighed when she saw him and asked him questions, and he only answered, “Nothing, mum. Fell over, mum.”

  She cleaned him up, sat him down to his meal, and put the book away for a more suitable time.

  It was dark that evening when Dido crossed Brick Lane into Rabbit Marsh.

  He was seething with rage against himself. He had not even seen the girl since Christmas. His nerve had failed after his flight from the hostel. Tonight he had stood in Great Eastern Street on the pavement opposite the teashop, as he had for several evenings, and had seen her come out and walk away.

  His courage had never failed him before. Now he turned on himself with bitter anger as a coward.

  He kept thinking over the scene in the hostel, each time seeing a different version of what he could have done. He could have approached her in the shop before Christmas. He could have taken her home for Christmas Day. He could have waited for her that night instead of running away. Why hadn’t he stopped those two girls as they came out of the concert room and asked them to fetch her? His wits had failed him; and his courage. The humiliation rose inside him like pressure in a boiler.

  He saw himself as they had seen him that night; the man the girls giggled at, stolid, dressed in clumsy navy serge, in shining but clumsy boots.

  And tonight in desperation he had bought some new clothes. He was trying to erase that picture of himself from his mind. He had gone to a proper smart gents’ shop in Houndsditch because he did not trust the shops round here to have any better taste than his own. He had bought for the first time in his life a pair of shoes; patent-leather, too. His mind flinched at the thought of walking down Rabbit Marsh in anything but big, solid boots, but the salesmen with their oiled hair and smooth, knowing talk had convinced him that gents wore shoes in the evening. He had also picked two new shirts, the first he had ever bought for himself; and some ties. Mrs Peach had always bought the boys’ shirts. She kept her eyes open for cheap lines on the market stalls and always selected thick, serviceable shirts of striped flannel. It had never occurred to Dido to question this. He had bought these things but now as he walked home he was prey to two conflicting shames; shame at the picture of his clumsy self when the girls had giggled at him; and shame that he was soft enough to ponce himself up against all his own tastes for a woman.

  With the parcels under his arm he crossed the street and passed a policeman who was talking to two civilians. He took no notice. He was a few yards farther on when a voice from behind halted him. “Here! You!”

  He turned. One of the two men in plain clothes was the detective, Mr Merry. He stood stupid with puzzlement but pierced by a needle-sharp intuition of trouble. The detective said sharply, “You! Come here!”

  Chapter Eight

  “What have you got there?”

  Dido did not answer. He had recovered from his surprise and knew what was coming next.

  “Let me see.”

  Dido handed the parcels to Mr Merry. Dido knew the uniformed policeman, Gaffney, a man with a Navy beard. He and the second plain-clothes man stood unmoving and silent, watching Dido.

  Dido knew better than to argue. It was common practice for anyone in these parts who was out after dark with any kind of package to be stopped by the police and asked to account for his burden.

  Merry took his time, unfastening the knots of thin string carefully. He unwrapped the parcel and turned it towards the lamplight. “Where did you get these?”

  “Bought ’em.”

  “Receipt?”

  Dido was silent. They did not give receipts down Houndsditch, or for that matter anywhere that Dido ever went. Merry opened the shoe-box. He showed it to the other plain-clothes man. He was smiling. He looked up at Dido. This time with the faintest touch of mockery, “Buy these?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gentleman of taste, our friend.” This was addressed to the other detective. “No receipt, of course.” Silence. “Perhaps you just found them? Someone left them on the pavement. Eh?”

  “I bought ’em.” Dido pointed at the names of the shops printed on the wrappers. “Go an’ ask.”

  “We shall.” He handed the two parcels to the other detective. “Weldon. See about these in the morning.” He made a brief hand movement to the uniformed man. “All right, Gaffney. Take him in.”

  Dido said, “What’s this?”

  “Pending enquiries,” Merry said. He and Dido stood looking at each other, the uniformed constable close to Dido’s side.

  “I done nothing,” Dido said.

  Merry said, “Pity you shopped in Houndsditch. No one on the premises at night. Have to hold you till the morning.”

  “I’m expected.”

  “Are you, indeed? Lady, I suppose.”

  Weldon laughed. Gaffney grinned. Merry’s smile and his mockery were open. He said, “Patent leather shoes. Expected at Lady Londonderry’s dance, are you?”

  Merry knew Dido only as one of a large gallery of local faces; one of the small fry. But since small fry grow if not caught, one must know and have one’s intentions concerning them all. He did not think of Dido as a workman. He had first noticed him on the night of Ginger’s destruction, and marked him as a petty street rough. Since he did not work and did not to Merry’s knowledge thieve, he must live by bullying. Merry despised bullies. If left too long unchecked this one might become another Ginger.

  Dido remained silent and Merry said, “Perhaps Lady Londonderry would vouch for you.”

  Dido stayed dumb while the two other policemen
laughed respectfully. At last he muttered, “Expected home.”

  “Ah,” said Merry. “That was no lady, that was my mother.”

  The two policemen laughed again. The clenched muscles in Dido’s cheeks were quivering. The lamplight showed to Merry the veins knotting on his temples, the rough skin of his face flushed — showing in the yellow light as a ghastly violet; and he saw the big, bunched fists being held back by all the man’s strength. He said, “Is your mother married, Peach? Come on, must have particulars.”

  He wanted those fists to fly out at him. The other two policemen knew it and were ready. Dido knew it, simply because he was in the hands of the policemen. He did not know the colder reason in Merry’s mind. Merry had no particular concern for Dido, but saw him as one of a large number of nasty little creatures who made life untidy. Mr Merry believed in tidiness and that his job was to tidy such people away. Dido, like Harry Murchison, was a fish to be played with patience. A conviction for violence tonight would add to Dido’s record and mean a longer sentence on that future day when Dido would be up before the judges on a major charge. Mr Merry would have brushed aside any suggestion that he provoked trouble or that he was prepared, in modern idiom, to frame people. He looked upon his own endeavours as a scientist might regard his. The scientist knows that water boils at two hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit. If the scientist wants to show someone else that this proposition about water is true, he puts a thermometer in the water and lets it boil. In the same way, Merry, needing to demonstrate to the administrators of justice that a man was a bad lot who deserved to be put away for a long time, brought his subject to the correct boiling point. He could not see that he falsified or invented anything. He believed that he was merely by informed experiment demonstrating the properties of his subject.

  It was Gaffney who saved Dido. The policeman cut in stolidly, “Widow, inspector. Respectable woman.” Merry gave him a sharp glance but said nothing more.

  Dido’s voice was thick and hardly audible. “I bought ’em.”

  “What with?”

  A bible of contempt and hatred in one word, “Money.”

  “Where did you get it? Where do you work? How much do you earn?”

  Silence.

  “Take him down, Gaffney.”

  The two detectives walked away. Dido felt a surge of hatred for Merry as he had never known for anyone. The humiliation of this interview was only the climax to the gathering humiliation of the past days.

  Gaffney said, “I’ll take you down first. I’ll tell her when I come back.” They walked a few paces in silence. He said, “You’ll be all right down the station. I’ll see you get some supper if you’re peckish.”

  “You mind you tell her,” Dido said.

  Chapter Nine

  At ten o’clock next morning when Weldon had come back from Houndsditch, Dido was set free with his parcels. He had suffered no worse than a night’s enforced lodging, with bread and cocoa for breakfast; but he was in a state of intense misery. He had been treated like a thief and shown the door without apology, that was what flicked his pride. He had no means of protest or redress. That chap Merry was to blame. Dido’s resentment focused on him. But Merry was protected by the law. Dido had had trouble enough and he could not touch Merry. His hatred became more intense for being helpless.

  He reflected as he plodded home on Merry’s behaviour last night. It almost seemed as if the detective had taken a personal dislike to him. He could not imagine why. Was the man in the pay of the Murchisons? Such things were taken for granted in the district. It was also a principle in the district that few worse misfortunes could befall one than to incur the particular dislike of a policeman.

  It seemed to Dido that ever since he had done what he must do to Ginger Murchison life had been organising a conspiracy against him. He looked upon himself as a law-abiding man. He had a horror of even being known to the police. Things simply happened to him. He felt as helpless as in a dream. He was determined to keep a clean sheet but here he was for the second time coming out of a police station.

  He thought, not for the first time, of going back to work. He liked heavy labour. It made his troubles go away. But as before arguments against it rose up: the argument of fear, for the Murchisons still waited outside the street: the argument of pride, which made him jib at the thought of walking down the street in working clothes once more, as drab and common and anonymous as any of those who witnessed his abdication. And now there was a new argument. His heart gave a knock of panic as he realised that if he went back to work he would not be able to go in the afternoons to see that girl. That damned girl! He wanted to forget her but he was not his own master any more.

  He was tired and fed up to the teeth when he turned into Rabbit Marsh. He gave no greeting when he saw Blakers in the doorway of his shop and stopped reluctantly when Blakers called, “’Ere! Dido! Spare a minute?”

  He did not speak and Blakers said, “Mind if I ask you something?”

  He could read nothing in Dido’s tired, heavy face. He went on, “Little favour, that’s all. I ’aven’t bothered you before, ’ave I?”

  Dido muttered, “What is it?”

  “Some o’ them layabouts in the Bug-’Ole —” He expected immediate comprehension from Dido but there was none in the sombre eyes that looked at him. He said, “Gettin’ be’ind with their payments. Owe me money. You know what them loafers are. It needs a firm ’and with that sort.”

  Dido said, “Well?”

  “Needs someone they’re feared of. Wake their ideas up a bit.”

  “Well?”

  Blakers was not warned by the dull voice. “Ginger used to get round there. Ginger Murchison. Put the fear o’ God into ’em. It’s what they want.”

  “Ginger did your threatening. I know.”

  Surprise showed for a moment in Blakers’ gaze. “I don’t know about threatening. Not always. Question o’ keepin’ ’em up to the mark. Ginger obliged, that’s all. I obliged ’im. ’E obliged me. Same as I oblige you. One good turn deserves another.”

  Dido said, “Do your own dirty work.”

  He strode away. Blakers lingered in his doorway. He gazed thoughtfully after Dido, without visible surprise or indignation; then he disappeared into his shop.

  Dido let himself into the house. He had no sooner closed the street door behind him when his mother came out of the kitchen. Pale and staring, she cried, “Oh, Dido —”

  Chas was behind her. Dido stalked into the kitchen, and as they moved uncertainly into the room after him, both still staring anxiety, he said, “What’s up with you?”

  “Wondered where you was.” Chas was still wide-eyed with wonderment.

  His mother cried, “Oh, Dido! Wherever have you been?”

  He looked from one to the other of them. “Didn’t no-one —?” He broke off.

  His mother stood with a hand pressed to her cheek. “You’ve never stayed out before. Not in your whole life.”

  Gaffney had not come, then. Dido felt no rancour against the policeman. The man might have been sent on some other duty; or, being a policeman, he might simply not have troubled; or at two o’clock in the morning he might have decided it was kinder not to knock up the widow. The feeling that dawned on Dido was of relief. It seemed to him that he was reprieved; that the worst blow for his mother would have been to know of trouble with the police, and that he could now spare her this. He said, “Nothing to worry about.”

  His mother began, “But where —?”

  “Business.” He turned on Chas. “Time you started work.”

  Chas said, “Mother was up all night.”

  She said, “I was so frightened.”

  “I’m sorry.” Dido sighed, and put a hand on her arm for a moment. “You shouldn’t worry though. I’m a grown man. Always liable to be out on business. Never know what hours.”

  “We thought it was them,” Chas said.

  “Them?”

  “You know who.”

  “Them,�
� Dido said. “Don’t you worry about them. Time you got on with your work.”

  “What sort of business was it?” Chas asked. Dido lost patience. “Get out in the yard.”

  “Keep your ’air on,” Chas muttered, edging towards the door in a daunted way.

  His mother was busy at the range. Her voice was querulous, “You’ve never stayed out before.”

  “Then I bloody well should ’ave,” he shouted. “I’m thirty, ain’t I?” Remorse stopped him. He could not remember having ever shouted at her; but he was so tired and choked with bitterness. He said wearily, “Make me some breakfast, will you?”

  “I am.” She looked frightened again. Chas hung in the doorway for a moment, then went out without speaking. She said, “Nice pair of saveloys.”

  Nausea rose in Dido at the thought of food; some of his earlier breakfast came up sour into his mouth. “Just a cup of tea.”

  “You asked for breakfast.”

  He had to fight to keep his voice gentle. “Don’t fuss, mother. Just a cup of tea.”

  He drank a mug of tea and went up to his room. He was dog-tired but he could not sleep. At least he could relax his aching body in the soft bed.

  When he came down Shonny was in the kitchen, his nose buried in a mug of tea. A book lay on the table next to him.

  Dido picked it up and looked at the title. “What’s this?”

  Mrs Peach was sewing. She said, “Just a book.”

  He was heavy with tiredness but the irritation that rose against his mother was as keen as it had been before. “I can see that.”

  “I got it for Shonny. It’s about how to improve yourself.”

  “You want Shonny to improve ’imself?”

  Shrinking already, she said, “Make something of himself, perhaps.”

  There was so much anger in him from so many sources that he could not keep quiet. “I ’aven’t done enough for ’im, is that it?”