That’s done it, thought Nick, no-one in the family’s ever worried about giving a name to Pa’s non-existent ship.
‘It’s slipped me mind for a moment,’ he said, ‘I’ll ask Ma. How about my ten fags and the Sunday Express?’
‘’Ere we are,’ said Gran, handing him a copy. ‘And ’ere’s yer Players.’
‘Ta, Gran,’ said Nick, giving her a tanner. ‘If I’ve got time when I next pop in, and if Wally’s too busy, I’ll smack Ivy’s bottom myself.’
‘Can’t yer make time now, lovey?’ asked Ivy.
‘Well, no,’ said Nick, ‘I’ve to sweep our yard out.’ He left to the sound of Ivy laughing. When he was back home, he pointed out to Ma that she’d never thought of giving Pa’s ship a name. Gran Emerson had just asked what it was.
‘Tell ’er the Iron Duke if she asks again,’ said Ma.
‘Suppose it was sunk in the Great War?’ said Alice.
‘Well, Nick can tell ’er the Navy went and refloated it,’ said Ma.
Over Monday morning breakfast, Ma took only a brief look at the front page of the daily paper before expressing outrage.
‘Well, I can’t ’ardly believe it,’ she said, ‘it’s disgraceful.’
‘What is, Ma?’ asked Alice. Amy and Fanny weren’t down yet. They didn’t have to leave for school until ten to nine.
‘I don’t like keepin’ on about how unlucky your Pa’s been,’ said Ma, ‘but there he is, ’aving to spend years away from us on account of just bein’ a bit daft, while some real common criminals do a big jewel robbery up in ’Ampstead over the weekend, and the police ’aven’t caught any of them.’
‘It’s a bit soon,’ said Nick.
‘Well, it was a bit soon all right for your Pa, but I suppose it’ll be late or never for these common burglars. It’s only unfortunate men like your Pa that get arrested like he did, and then it only ’appened to him because that spiteful American woman told the police exactly what ’e looked like and how ’e was dressed.’
‘A bit much that was, when she was half undressed herself,’ said Nick.
‘That was when Pa really was daft,’ said Alice. ‘He should ’ave sat her on his lap and treated her to a cuddle.’
Ma blinked.
‘What, when she was in her underwear?’ she said.
‘Well, Pa was entitled to his own treat,’ said Alice.
‘You bet,’ said Nick. ‘Treats ought to be mutual.’
‘What’s that mean?’ asked Ma.
‘Well, we saw her in court, Ma, and she was a handsome bit of stuff,’ said Nick.
‘You’re gettin’ ideas, my lad,’ said Ma. ‘I suppose it’s on account of your growin’ manhood.’
Alice choked a bit on toast.
‘Don’t say things like that, Ma,’ she implored.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Ma. Her perkiness was edged by a frown. She was really cross about the possibility that common jewel thieves would get away with their crime while Pa was still doing hard labour just for having a rush of blood to his head.
At the insurance company’s extensive offices in Holborn, Nick dealt with claims of a simple kind, like funeral expenses. Lots of people paid a penny or tuppence a week to ensure their funeral expenses were provided for. Then there were claims from people who’d lost their watches or broken a limb or damaged their spectacles. Nick didn’t deal with burglaries, theft, fires or earthquakes. Not yet twenty-one, he was still regarded as a junior, and was paid twenty-two-and-six a week.
On Wednesday morning, the claims department manager, Mr Pollard, a serious gent in a serious profession, had the grave goodness to inform Nick that consequent on attaining the age of twenty-one in November an increment of two shillings and sixpence a week would be awarded him. Nick was suitably grateful, refraining from asking the manager if he could make it five bob. Just as well he didn’t, for Mr Pollard then expressed a hope that he’d prove himself worthy of such a handsome increment.
Just after twelve-thirty, he was coming out of the men’s cloakroom on the second floor of the building when he heard a girl call.
‘Excuse me?’
He turned and saw her in the lift at the end of the corridor. She was visible through the openwork metal gate.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘D’you think you could help me get out of this contraption?’
‘Coming,’ said Nick, and walked up to the lift. Through the gate, swimming brown eyes begged for assistance. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I’m stuck, that’s the problem, but nice of you to ask,’ she said. ‘The gate won’t open, and the lift won’t move. It’s a relic.’
‘It’s a trap as well,’ said Nick. ‘Half a mo’.’ He gave the gate a kick, and pulled on the brass handle. The gate slid open.
‘Crikey,’ said the girl, ‘are you the son of Houdini?’
‘No, just a bloke who knows that when this lift gets stuck, the gate won’t open until you give it a kick. A clever engineer comes to put it right every so often, and two days later it starts playing up again. But a kick usually does the trick.’
‘Well, thanks.’ She stepped out. She was wearing a round hat of dark green felt with a curved brim. It sat on top of glossy chestnut hair. Her winter coat of matching green was very good-looking. So was she. Prettier even than Amy, and just about seventeen, he thought. A peach. ‘It hasn’t got a notice,’ she said.
‘What notice?’
‘About giving it a good kick.’
‘You’re right,’ said Nick. ‘I’ll make one out and stick it on. Someone ought to. D’you work here?’
‘No, I’m just visiting the fourth floor, but this piece of old iron won’t go up any farther,’ she said.
‘Let’s see,’ said Nick. He stepped in with her, closed the gate and pressed the fourth floor button. The lift stayed still. He pressed again. Nothing happened.
‘That’s clever,’ said the peach, ‘now we’re both stuck.’
‘We can’t be,’ said Nick, ‘it’s against company rules for a feller to get stuck in this lift with a girl.’
‘Why? Aren’t girls safe with you?’
‘Safe as a lamb with its dad,’ said Nick. He gave the gate a good kick and pulled it open. They stepped out and he closed the gate. ‘I’m not even a danger to a bunch of flowers, let alone a girl.’
‘Oh, I expect you’ll improve,’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m hoping time will turn me into someone like Clark Gable,’ said Nick. ‘But I’ll get a flea in my ear if I’m not back at my desk soon. Look, the stairs are over there. Wait a minute, you sure you want the fourth floor?’
‘Positive,’ she said.
‘Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing,’ said Nick, ‘good luck.’
‘Wait a moment,’ she said, ‘you can’t just leave me here on my own, I have to find someone.’
‘Why, have you come to be interviewed for a job?’ Nick wasn’t finding it a problem to linger with this extraordinarily attractive girl, even if he should have been back at his work well before now.
‘No, I’ve come to see Mr Douglas.’
‘Pardon?’ Nick blinked.
‘Mr Douglas. D’you know him?’
‘I’ve only heard of him.’ Mr J M Douglas was the awesome chairman of the company. ‘He’s God. He’s up there somewhere on the fourth floor. Watch how you go, or you’ll be struck by lightning.’
‘Oh, lor’, will I really?’ Little imps danced in her brown eyes, or so it seemed to Nick, fascinated by their colour.
‘Not half,’ he said. ‘Good luck again, I’ve got to—’
‘Oh, don’t be a funk, you can take me up and show me where his office is, can’t you?’
‘The fourth floor is all his office, but all right, come on, this way.’ Nick took her to the staircase.
‘Where’d you work here?’ she asked as they began to climb the stairs.
‘Minor claims department.’
‘What’s yo
ur name?’
‘Nobody, really.’
‘Don’t be soppy, no-one can be nobody. What’s your name?’
‘Nick. Nick Harrison. What’s yours?’
‘Annabelle. Annabelle Somers.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Annabelle. Here you are, fourth floor.’
It was hallowed territory. Below them, the building hummed with the sound of busy bees. Here there was only hush and quiet. The landing was large, the corridor wide, the floor carpeted.
‘Thanks,’ said Annabelle. She was self-assured but very nice, her blossoming figure shaped by her well-fitting coat. Nick already liked her enough to wish she lived next door and that there were no problems with Pa. ‘Which door is it?’
‘No idea,’ he said, ‘this floor is out of bounds to everybody except the most important people. Are you important?’
‘No, I’m just me,’ she said.
‘You’re not having me on, are you?’ said Nick, thinking the quiet had a sort of holy atmosphere to it. ‘I mean, nobody’s allowed up here unless God’s summoned them.’
‘Oh, God’s my great-uncle,’ said Annabelle, ‘and I’ve come to see him by arrangement. He’s treating me to lunch at some posh restaurant.’
‘Oh, me gawd,’ said Nick. Annabelle, who had her own sense of humour, laughed. ‘It’s not funny,’ said Nick.
‘Yes, it is, and so are you,’ she said, and laughed again. ‘All that stuff about the lift and God.’
‘No wonder you asked for my name,’ said Nick, ‘I think I’m going to get the sack.’
‘Blessed cheek,’ said Annabelle, ‘d’you want a biff in the eye?’ Shades of Cassie, thought Nick. ‘I’m not that kind of girl, I’ll have you know.’
‘Sorry,’ said Nick. ‘Look, I’d better go, or it’s a cert I will get the sack.’
‘Yes, all right.’ Annabelle smiled. ‘And thanks, really.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Nick, and scooted down the stairs, back to the claims department on the second floor. Mr Clewes, senior clerk, asked him where he’d been. Cloakroom, said Nick, and then someone, a visitor, got stuck in the lift.
‘Didn’t you call the porter?’
‘Well, I should have, Mr Clewes, but I thought I’d have a go myself first. I managed it in the end.’
‘You just need to give the gate a good kick,’ said Brian Godfrey, one of Nick’s fellow junior clerks.
‘Resume your work, Harrison,’ said Mr Clewes.
Nick resumed it, but had little regrets floating about in his mind. She really was a peach. Ruddy goalposts, though, God’s great-niece of all girls. Imagine having to tell someone like her that Pa was doing time.
Later, about half an hour after he’d had his lunch of sandwiches, he was called into the manager’s office. Mr Pollard had papers in front of him and was frowning at them.
‘Yes, Mr Pollard?’
‘What’s this?’ asked the manager.
‘Pardon?’
‘Funeral expenses claim relating to a Mrs Potter of Clapham. You’ve passed a claim of twelve pounds, thirteen shillings and sixpence.’
‘That’s correct, sir, is it?’
‘The premium of a shilling a month, Harrison, allowed for a maximum claim of ten pounds.’
‘Help,’ said Nick, knowing his mind couldn’t have been on it.
‘What?’ said Mr Pollard.
‘Sorry, sir, I don’t usually make mistakes like that.’
‘Fortunately for you, the mistake was noticed or a cheque would have been sent amounting to a settlement excess of over twenty-five per cent. Twenty-five per cent. Mistakes like that, Harrison, could cost the company dear.’
‘Must have been the effect of my forthcoming rise, Mr Pollard,’ said Nick, ‘must have gone to my head.’
‘Indeed it must,’ said Mr Pollard. ‘Make sure such mistakes never happen again, whatever goes to your head.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Take the claim with you, then, and adjust the figures.’
‘Thanks,’ said Nick.
That was by no means the end of events for the day. At three-thirty, he was called into the manager’s office again. This time he found Mr Pollard gazing at his desk telephone as if it had bitten him.
He lifted his head quite slowly to look up at Nick.
‘Harrison?’ He sounded a little hoarse.
‘Yes, sir?’
Mr Pollard blinked.
‘Harrison,’ he said in disbelief, ‘you’re to go up to the fourth floor.’
‘Beg your pardon, sir?’ said Nick. It was what was called unheard-of. No clerks ever went up to the fourth floor. Nor did most other employees. Mr Pollard himself had never been. The chairman rarely interviewed anyone who wasn’t a director.
‘At once,’ said Mr Pollard, hoarser.
‘You sure, sir?’
‘There’s no mistake.’ But Mr Pollard actually looked as if he was up against a monumental error. ‘Go up immediately.’
Nick went up, wondering, of course, if he was still going to be alive at the end of his working day. The fourth floor, with its wide carpeted corridor, was charged with frightening quietness. Nick thought of calm before a storm. The huge oak door of an office was open. He tidied his hair, polished his shoes on the back of each trouser-leg, and went in. He found himself in a spacious ante-room. He knocked on the inner door.
‘Come in.’ The voice was deep and vibrant.
Nick entered. God’s sanctum was huge. An enormous painting adorned one wall. It looked like a picture of some historic board meeting with bewigged City merchants sitting at a long table, everyone eyeing the viewer. The carpet was thick, its colour a kind of mushroom. But the only furniture was a cabinet, four upright leather-padded chairs, and an enormous desk, all in oak. At the desk sat God in the shape of Mr J M Douglas. Nick had never seen him before, but there he was, looking just like the Almighty with his mane of iron-grey hair, arrestingly craggy face, broad shoulders and dark glinting eyes. He said nothing as Nick approached his desk. He looked him up and down in complete silence. It was at least half a minute before he spoke.
‘Your name is Nicholas Harrison?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re a clerk in the claims department?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘By God,’ said God, ‘you’re the one, are you? You’re the young swine who had the unmitigated gall to trap a young relative of mine in the lift, are you? Explain yourself.’
‘I’d like to, sir, as it wasn’t quite—’
‘Hold your tongue,’ growled God. That’s coming it a bit, thought Nick, considering he asked me to explain. ‘I’d have you transported if that salutary punishment hadn’t been done away with by a feeble-minded Parliament. As it is—’ God paused, deliberating, no doubt, on what form of execution to impose. Nick, seeing he was going to get the chop in one way or another, took advantage of the pause to speak his piece.
‘I’ve got to say, sir, that the lift stuck with the young lady in it. After giving the gate a kick, which released it, I then tried—’
‘I don’t want any damned excuses,’ said God. He looked Nick up and down again, without finding anything he seemed to like. He was glowering. Nick’s impression was that thunder was writ large on his brow. ‘I’m tempted to open this window at my back and throw you out of it. As it is, you’re dismissed for the rest of the day. You’re to take my niece to tea at the Exchange Teashop. You’re to behave your impertinent self and to speak of it to no-one in this building. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir, but are you serious? I—’ Nick stopped. What a lunatic I am, he thought, I’m asking God if he’s serious.
‘All questions in this office, Harrison, are asked only by myself,’ said the Almighty. ‘Now do as I instructed you.’
‘Yes, sir, but the young lady—’
‘Is waiting outside on the pavement. Get down to her at once.’ God flipped a strong hand and dismissed Nick. Nick went down to his department, collected his raincoat and
his City boater, and told Mr Clewes he was under orders from the fourth floor. Mr Clewes didn’t believe him, of course, and hastened to the manager’s office. Nick hastened out.
There she was, standing on the pavement a little way up from the entrance, her coat hugging her figure. The afternoon was sharp.
‘Well, thank goodness,’ she said, ‘I thought you were never coming. I’ve had to put up with pipsqueak messenger boys giving me the eye. That’s not a very good start.’
‘Now look here—’
‘Now what? Cheeky devil. Never mind, come on, this way.’ Off she went across the road, weaving blithely in and out of slow-moving or stationary traffic. I need help, thought Nick, I think I’m supposed to be in charge of her. What happens if I have to go back and tell God she walked under a beer dray? He caught her up as she reached the pavement.
‘Listen, how did this happen, me going to tea with you?’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ said Annabelle, walking on.
‘I’m overcome, believe me I am, but could I ask you not to have an accident? I’ll have one myself if you do, I’ll get chucked out of the fourth floor window.’
‘Never mind, perhaps you’ll just bounce,’ she said, and turned into Fetter Lane. The Exchange Teashop was a little way down. It was an old-established place used by City gents, superior City messengers and Fleet Street blokes who were on the wagon. Nick had never used it himself. One couldn’t have just a cup of tea there. It had to be a pot, a silver pot, which cost a horrendous tenpence. The waitresses wore dark blue dresses with white lace-trimmed fronts and what looked a bit like nurses’ caps. ‘I suppose you feel you’ve been put in charge of me,’ said Annabelle.
‘All I’m sure of is that if I fall over my feet, I’ll be tried and shot.’
‘Oh, dear, poor you,’ said Annabelle. ‘I can imagine what happened. Never mind, you still look as if you’re in one piece, and you’re not against having tea with me, are you?’
‘Mad about it,’ said Nick.
‘What d’you mean, mad about it? You’ve only just met me.’
‘Yes, I daresay I have, but this is a lot better than pens, claim forms and blotting paper.’
‘Is that what you do when you meet a girl, decide if she’s worse or better than blotting paper, or about the same?’
Pride of Walworth Page 6
