‘There must be a hundred of them,’ Paul says.
‘They act like it, but it’s only thirty-nine. Actually thirty-eight, Alice Barrett has gone into labour. If we’re lucky, and if she’s lucky, we might go and see her after this is over. It’s her fourth so she should know what to do. I might take her a diamond cluster ring or something. It’s always nice to bring a little something to a baby.’
‘Come on, time for you to do some work too,’ she says to him. ‘Follow me.’
Once inside the shop, a warehouse full of thousands of objects, everything from trinkets to four-poster beds. The debris of broke citizens.
‘The owner has a safe, and one of the girls is working on getting the combination for it. It’s just a small Charts & Bedell, but it’s full. Worst case I might ask you to carry it upstairs and throw it out of the window.’ They come to the office, and then someone shouts for her, she points to the floor and looks at Paul, then runs off.
He stands there looking at the spectacle for what feels like a long time. Little ants, scurrying off with golden grains of rice. He peeks into the office, realises it’s almost eight o’clock. Time seems to fly when you rob people. He wonders where Miriam is, and if he should be doing things, carrying things, or if it’d be best to disappear before the police turn up. If they do? He realises he has no idea on which side of the law he is.
Suddenly he hears a loud whistle and jumps, only to realise it’s Miriam, standing not far from him, conducting the show to an end.
‘What’s happening?’ he asks her.
Disregarding him, she whistles again ‘Time to go girls!’ she shouts. ‘Can you not hear the whistle? Think you’d enjoy a little holiday behind bars?’
She winks at Paul. Once they are outside in the street she tells him they got the combination. ‘It was shamefully easy. A pity to miss out on you carting the box upstairs.’ As the women file by, Miriam grabs a tall woman by the arm and asks, ‘Brenda, did you get the paperwork, the books?’
‘Yes I did. Right here in my bag, Mimi.’
The raid has a festival feel to it. Like a May Day parade. Then Miriam shoots a glance over her shoulder and her face goes sharp and dark.
‘Paul,’ she hisses, ‘come with me. He’s one jealous bat face.’
‘Who? I can disappear in the crowd. I’ll give one of the girls a hand if you want me to,’ he says.
‘If you value your life, do as I say. If he realises I’ve been seeing you, or even using your services we’re both in deep trouble. Now,’ she hisses. She looks over his shoulder again and takes his hand. They half-run up towards the quieter, narrower Gee Street. When they are just a few yards away they both hear Mr Morton’s voice shouting, ‘Miriam, Miriam is that you?’
She looks around her, at Paul, her eyes big and wet. She mouths ‘Sorry’, and ‘the Coffeehouse’, and pushes him down the backstairs to the Garter and Sceptre. He tumbles into the basement room and judging by the startled looks on the faces of the men drinking, he decides to play drunk rather than explain himself. Reeling and singing, he heads for the stairs. Once outside, he walks in the opposite direction to the pawnbroker. His bike is at the coffeehouse and he has no choice but to spend money on a taxi, something he doesn’t like. The return leg of his journey is nowhere near as pleasant.
He’s both scared by how serious Miriam turned, and excited to have seen her in her element. To have seen her lithe and dangerous; a smiling crocodile, snapping.
Once he gets to the coffeehouse, he finds it’s shut. No explanation, just a turned over sign, telling him it’s ‘Closed – Please come back tomorrow.’
If he can’t get his bike, and Mr Morton asks him to make a delivery, he’s sure to be killed. The realisation sends a wave of fever down his back. Then someone moving inside the café catches his eye, and he bangs on the door. First nothing happens, then he sees the movement again. He bangs harder. Hears ‘We’re closed,’ from the bowels of the place.
‘It’s me,’ Paul says through the gap between door and doorpost. Stanley comes to the door but doesn’t open it.
‘What do you want?’ asks Stanley.
‘My bike?’
‘What about it?’
‘Is it still here?’
Stanley just nods.
‘I’m sorry. Why are you closed?’ Paul asks.
Stanley offers no explanation, but unlocks the door and ushers Paul in. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m only pulling your leg. I’m a friend of Miriam’s and any friend of hers is a friend of mine. What’s your name son?’
‘Paul MacAllister.’
‘Pleasure.’
‘Will you be open later? She told me to come here tonight,’ Paul says.
‘Why on earth would she do that?’ Stanley straightens up, pushes his cap further up his forehead.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, I usually tell her friends who come calling for her to find her at the Bamboo Lounge if she’s not here or has left instructions with me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A bar. You’re quite new to London aren’t you?’
‘Or I could go to her flat,’ Paul says.
‘You know where she lives?’
‘Yes. Just across the road.’
‘And you’ve been inside?’
‘She asked me to come inside.’
Stanley looks incredulous. Then he says, ‘That changes things. To me, you’re now category B.’
‘What do you mean?’ Paul asks, sitting down on one of the high bar stools.
‘I like everything classified. From milk to people. My wife calls me bovine, I think of myself as structured and bighearted,’ Jack replies.
‘I see.’
‘Well, the lady invited you home.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that.’
‘Whichever way it was, this morning you were F, just some fellow. Then she spoke to you. That made you E. After that you left together and she seemed to know your name. That made you D. Now you come here expecting a message, that makes you C, and since you know her lodgings that makes you B.’
‘Are there a lot of friends, a lot of men, who come calling for her?’
‘Hundreds.’
‘Hundreds?’
‘Relax, Mr B. Not many. A baker’s dozen.’
‘Still…’
‘But the category B ones I can count on one hand.’
‘So thirteen down to five, that’s still not too encouraging.’
‘Well, I can count it on a pirate’s hand, one with a hook, how’s that?’
‘Better. Much better. Who is he, if I may ask?’
‘He is a she, and I believe she’s dead. Or at least not to be found in Europe as far as I’ve been told.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘No.’
‘So you think she might be at this bamboo place?’
‘To be honest she could be anywhere. The Carousel, Norwich, Tower Bridge, anywhere really. Your best bet is probably at the Turkish Baths by Hampstead Heath, but not till after midnight. Do you know your way there?’
‘I think so. Well, to the Heath anyway.’
‘Ask anyone once you’re there, then find Ralph or Suzanne in the reception and they can send word upstairs for her. If she’s there.’
‘Thanks I’ll go there tonight then.’
‘Make sure to stay Mr B. If I hear you’re slipping down you’re probably on the way to getting yourself killed.’
Paul wheels the bike out into the dusk. Waves to Stanley and sets off. Pushes hard on the pedals.
Chapter 13
After running errands most of the day and then eating dinner on his own at a working man’s place in Bethnal Green – cheap stodge and as much tea as he wants – Paul’s ready.
He cycles to the Heath, where he finds a big sandstone building with a sign saying: Hot & cold baths & water therapy & nourishment, next to a crescent moon and a star. Neither of the two people he’s to ask for are there. He stands in the vestibule of the
baths, feeling stupid. He’s ridden across town faster than he has ever managed, on top of a tiring day.
He hears her voice and turns, ‘Paul? What are you doing here?’ Miriam, with a towel wrapped around her hair, says.
‘Stanley told me I could come.’
‘I’m usually not here until after midnight.’ Lucky you caught me.’
Miriam tucks a strand of hair back into the towel and says, ‘I’m sorry I had to push you into that pub. I had to spend the day with Mr Morton. He was looking for a stuffed bear’s head. Apparently grizzlies are hard to come by. I didn’t know he was going to show up, but he had me go through a lot of the back store with him.’
‘Sounds rough.’
‘It was fine actually. I don’t like that he happened to come by though. Of course he didn’t mind what I was doing, I mean it was sanctioned by him, it’s just, he usually lets me get on with it. I always put my profits in his books.
‘So do I. Or at least, Silas does.’
‘Mr Morton likes storming in, you know, making a big entrance of it in his white car. At least I provided him with a nice crowd.’
‘You did.’
‘I wouldn’t want him to see us together. I can’t be associated with any other man. That’s partly why my crew is all women.’
‘Won’t they tell him about me?’
‘They’re more loyal to me than to him.’ Miriam nods to herself then says, ‘I’m glad you found this place. Are you hungry? I’m starving.’
‘Come to think of it I had four milkshakes this morning, but I’ve not really had anything since.’
‘They have a private room upstairs. I’ll ask Ralph to send up some lamb stew and a loaf of bread.’
Upstairs, Paul walks over to the window. The inner courtyard is fenced in by the building on all four sides. There are two pools, ‘One steaming hot, one cold,’ Miriam says behind him. A peacock struts around pecking, a troupe of sparrows endlessly settle and take off. No people disturb the calm as the bathers have all gone home. Paul closes the curtain, feels good to not be in danger of being seen even from neighbouring rooftops.
The room is painted dark red, the windows framed by dark green tasselled curtains. On the walls hang hammered copper plates, a watercolour of a cathedral labelled Hagia Sophia and a grainy photo of a wide bay labelled the Bosphorus. Over the door hangs a long curved sable with a long sash in white and red tied to the scabbard. There’s a low table to kneel at, and two round leather cushions filled with horsehair.
Miriam takes both his hands in hers and says, ‘You can never tell anyone about this place. It’s my haven. Even Mr Morton doesn’t know about it.’ He nods. Then there’s a knock on the door.
She drinks most of a bottle of wine with the meal. He’s still loyal to his promise of prohibition, but the mood of the evening has gone to his head. They pile the dishes outside the door and push the table to one side. Sit with their backs against the wall. His face is warm and her hair is coming loose from its pins. She looks at him. Holds his gaze for several heartbeats. Nodding to herself she gets up and walks over to her bag. Brings out a book.
‘I got this when I was at home, thought I’d keep it here instead.’
‘What is it?’
‘Towards the end of her life my mother told me some things about my family, and she gave me a drawing of our family tree. I sometimes write things about the people in my family. About my past.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ he says, extending his arm. Both to bring her back to his side, and to have a look at the notebook.
‘I try to write in it, or read it, whenever life gets a bit much for me.’
‘Like a diary.’
‘Yes, and no,’ she says and comes over to him.
He nods and watches her sit. She folds herself gracefully into a small bundle of legs and arms. Sits on one of the round cushions. Then moves an inch closer to him, and asks, ‘Will you read to me?’
‘If you want.’
‘I do.’ She giggles a little, and then sways over to the window where she throws the curtains open and unlatches the window.
‘Have you ever had Turkish coffee?’ she asks.
‘No, can’t say I have,’ he says, one hand on the empty cushion.
‘It’s a good remedy for red wine. As is fresh air.’
She comes back and they sit in content silence, until a woman Miriam introduces as Suzanne, comes up and pours thick, black coffee into small cups. She leaves the pot on a little burner, places copper bowls of cardamom seed and Barbados sugar on the table, and retreats without a word. But with a wide smile directed to Miriam.
Miriam sips the coffee, looks at Paul, moves closer to him, leans back and closes her eyes, says, ‘Please read.’
He clears his throat, opens the book, angles it to catch the light from the candles, and then begins:
No. 14
Three brothers, all decent men
The fourth a misfit, and then,
The Great War made heroes of all but one
The youngest with scars and a gun
Discharged early and alone
Broke her like a dog a bone
He looks down at her and she opens her eyes.
‘Thank you,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s about my mum. And her uncle.’ Miriam takes his hand. ‘It’s a shame that I write like a child,’ she says.
‘I don’t know anything about poetry but I think it was nice.’
‘I wouldn’t call it poetry, and maybe I will always be that child when I try to put pen to paper.’
‘What about your mother? What happened?’
‘I’ve never told anyone, but since we are here, since I’ve had this rather nice wine, since you read to me, and for reasons you can’t, and I can’t explain, I will tell you.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I know. But I will.’ She dips a finger in an almost empty water glass and dabs her eyelids. ‘When the family came over to England from Norway, the three older brothers did well for themselves. The oldest one married and had a daughter, my mother. The three oldest brothers went into the navy and the fourth went into the army. Then came the war. When it ended, the navy men had moved up in the ranks, while the youngest had stayed where he began. He had been injured, and not honourable. When he returned from the front he was wrong in the head.’
‘I hear battle can do that to a man,’ Paul says.
Miriam looks at him. Hesitates. Then she grips his hand, swallows and opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Paul stretches for a glass of water. She gratefully gulps some down, then manages to continue, ‘When he returned home from the frontlines he found my mother home alone, she was very young.’
‘That’s… I don’t know what to say,’ Paul sits still. Like he was made out of glass.
‘My mother was never the same. Not that I knew her before. Sometimes I felt like she had not always been the person she was with us.’ Miriam reaches up and intercepts a tear that escapes her right eye. One from her left lands on his hand, the one still holding her. ‘She could never forgive him. She could never forgive me,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry.’ It sounds empty, but it’s better than nothing, he thinks.
‘Later, I had a brother.’ Miriam empties her wine glass. The second bottle now almost empty. Then she continues, ‘I was to protect him but you already know what happened to him. I don’t know who his father was, and I don’t think my mother did either.’
‘You don’t have to tell me this if it’s hard work.’
‘It’s fine, really.’
‘What happened to the other brothers?’
She doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say. Or do. She doesn’t cry again, but he can see it’s not far off. Drops of salty water slowly, slowly gathering, increasing in size, caught by her lower eyelashes. He wishes he could help. Wishes he was more experienced, then he would know what to do. A hug? A kiss? Something more? Or leave her alone? In the end he just sits there. Asks if she wants a cup of tea, to wh
ich she just shakes her head.
After a while she looks up at him from under her fringe and says, ‘Paul, I think you’re a lovely man.’ She stands up and shakes a little, waking up her limbs. ‘I’ve been drinking, and now I’m very sleepy. But before you get any ideas, I am going to send you home. I think it’s best that way.’
‘Maybe,’ he says, eyes like a puppy. Half on purpose.
‘We wouldn’t want Silas to wonder where you are.’
‘He doesn’t own me.’
‘Relax, I’m not making fun of you.’
‘Can I see you again?’ he asks.
She smiles. Pushes an escaped lock of hair behind her left ear, and says, ‘If you want to. If you dare.’
‘I do.’
Chapter 14
Since Paul struck the deal about percentages, no officials or collectors around the various tracks ever ask him for money or fees, but neither do they present him his prize when he wins, or does well enough to be paid. Instead he receives a kind of salary from Silas.
The only thing Silas has said on the matter is that Paul must always, always wear the same black and yellow top, the one with the same number 34. If someone else has the same number and won’t change, even after Silas’ name has been mentioned, Paul is to pull out of the race.
Paul soon realises Silas must have eyes and ears at every race because Silas is never present, but seems to know how he has placed, who has won, fallen over, tried to cheat, pulled out. And he has never tried to race in any other sweater, or number, but that’s more to do with wanting to do Jack proud and a tiny flicker of superstition, than Silas’ warnings.
Once a month Rupert hands Paul a box with money and a wide baby blue ledger with six columns. In, Out, Places, Percentage, Silas’ total, and, in red, Paul’s total. Rupert tells Paul he has to sign the ledger. There’s a handwritten slip telling him how much he owes for rent and how much he still owes for the bike. The suggestion is that he gives as much as he can afford. Paul always follows the advice in regards to rent and usually for the bike. In the back of the ledger Rupert notes the sum, and under it pens, tip of his tongue jotting out, wriggling like a fish on land, a long squiggly signature as impossible to forge as it is to read.
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