‘Is that a smile? Anything you want to share with us Paul?’ Mr Morton asks. ‘Sorry, no. Just a sore gut from too much drink I think.’
Mr Morton raises himself up from his chair. Straightens his jacket. Pats his hair. Walks halfway around the desk and pulls one trouser leg up. He sits on one corner studying his diamond cufflinks.
‘You see Paul, this girl belongs to me. From the feet up. From her little toes, past her delicious ankles, up past her dimpled knees, up along those gorgeous thighs, inner thighs too, white and unspoiled by the sun, past the curve of her buttocks and the gentle curve of her hips. You know, I think the hips of a woman are her most redeeming feature. Ships are launched over hips and their secrets. Not faces.’
Mr Morton stands up, picks up the fountain pen from his desk. Starts to slowly circle Miriam. Occasionally pointing to the parts he’s talking about. Like a lecturer performing an autopsy in a hushed operating theatre.
‘I own her front, her bust, however small or bolstered it may be, I own her throat, her face, her lips, and today they’re nice and red. Almost blood red don’t you think? Perfect for a kiss.’ Mr Morton pouts, then laughs and continues, ‘I own her mouth, her teeth, especially the one golden one in the back on the left hand side, not sure if you’ve seen that one? Beautiful work. Done by a Gypsy dentist I know. Silly girl ran straight into a crowbar one evening a couple of years ago.’ Here he gestures for her to open her mouth and invites Paul to come and have a look at the tooth, pointing to it with the pen, deep into her mouth. Miriam obliges, focuses her eyes on the light fixture in the ceiling.
‘I own her hair, piled high on top, or under a hat, or shaved off and weaved into a little doll for juju masters to stick needles into. You realise this?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Good. But more to the point, I also own her insides. I own her brain, her mind, her thoughts, her fantasies, her secrets, her hopes, and fears. Her soul and future fate. I own all her unborn children, past and future. I own her family tree.’
Paul shifts his weight from one foot to the other, as Mr Morton continues, ‘I could have had her years ago, and I might have, that’s none of your business young man, but I chose not to. She was keen to of course, but I’m a married man, a good Catholic and wouldn’t do such a thing to a poor young woman.’
Paul nods.
‘But she’s a lovely ripe tomato don’t you think Paul?’
Paul doesn’t answer. Just looks at Mr Morton’s shoes. They gleam.
‘Don’t you think Paul?’
Eventually Paul says, ‘I wouldn’t know sir, I’ve never really paid attention to her.’
‘Good,’ laughs Mr Morton. ‘Good, and let’s keep it that way.’
Paul looks at Drago. The man smiles and fingers his goatee. Mr Morton drops the pen in a waste basket and walks up to Paul. He comes to a standstill about three inches from Paul and gestures for him to stoop down a little.
Face to face Paul can smell the Cointreau on his breath – the orange stink – Mr Morton continues, ‘I know you wouldn’t flirt with her, try anything, see her outside working hours as it were, or try to contact her in any way. You know, see her behind my back. This I know deep in my heart. You know how?’
‘No sir.’
‘Because if you did I would have to take a week off work and think up a worse death than I have ever offered anyone. Am I making myself clear?
‘Yes.’
Mr Morton makes a fist with his right hand. Then his left. His eyes dark. Then he punches Paul in the face with his right, followed by a smart punch in Paul’s solar plexus with his left. They’re not real punches, but they’re not playful either.
‘Relax soldier,’ Mr Morton says as Paul tries to get his breath back.
‘Mmm,’ is all he can say, eyes watering. Drago is giggling.
‘Don’t worry Paul, I know you haven’t got it in you,’ Mr Morton continues, flexing his fingers. ‘She’s too good for you. She’s many tiers up.’
‘No, no I don’t,’ Paul croaks.
‘See I could have become quite a good boxer. Being ambidextrous means I can lead with either hand. I’m not regular, nor a southpaw. I’m dangerous from either angle.’ Mr Morton throws another punch in the air. ‘You ok son? I thought you sportsmen had more stamina than this.’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Paul manages to say.
‘Good, because now I want you to piss off, and go win some races or whatever it is you do when you’re not lounging around, receiving pay from me.’
‘Thank you.’
As Paul leaves he makes sure he doesn’t look at Miriam, who’s still standing in the exact same spot since the examination. Mr Morton is back behind his desk, ‘Now young lady, let’s talk a bit more about this afternoon, and what we’re doing tomorrow. It’s a big evening. I want something quite spectacular to happen.’
Drago closes the door and leads Paul through the crowds of drinkers. By the cuff, as though he is a man with unpaid debts. Paul finds himself in the street. The left side of his face hurts and he can’t think straight. He forces himself to put one foot in front of the other, over and over again, until he’s far enough away from the club that he can’t see it. Then he can think of home. Of his bed. He makes sure he doesn’t think of Miriam.
His shoes and trouser legs are still wet, and the evening is cold. The days between Christmas and New Year have a sad quality to them. People are working. Broke, but covered in tinsel. With the memory of lard and feasting behind them, but the colourful streamers and flying corks not yet in sight.
It’s a long way to walk home. He’s gone off the idea of staying in a hotel. The night would be too short to make it worth the money anyway. As it is he won’t have time for much more than a nap between coming home for his things and having to leave again for the train station. Still feeling winded and with sore teeth he resigns himself to the steady plodding of his feet. Left, right, left, right all the way to Copenhagen Street.
He’s relieved to see the bike outside his room when he gets in. Guarded by a grubby boy about ten years old. Once the boy sees Paul he whips his hat off and rushes down the stairs. It’s quarter to four in the morning and Paul’s teeth are soft from all the sugar he’s had, and his head is like a blown-out egg. In just over three hours he needs to be on a train that will take him to an evening race up north.
Chapter 33
The train journey and the exercise takes his mind off the death of his father and the conversation he had with Mr Morton. But not entirely. While waiting for the train back he sends a letter to his uncle, asking about the farm, the deeds and so on, giving a very brief summary of his life in London, his racing and giving his return address as c/o Halkias, Copenhagen Street. Sitting on the train back to London he can’t recall much about the race. He’s not even entirely sure how he placed. Decides to ask Silas if he knows.
It’s New Year’s Eve, which means he has two days off from the racing. Once Paul gets back to his room Silas knocks on his door. It’s as if he’s been waiting for Paul’s return. Silas enters and lays out a not new, but nice enough, suit for Paul to put on.
‘I heard you did well up north. In fact you’ve had a good season. I thought you might want to come out for a drink.’
‘I’m fine thank you. I need to eat and sleep.’
‘Humbug. You need to live and laugh. Here, I even got you a suit.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘I know,’ Silas says smiling and spreading his arms. ‘Go on, I know it fits. I have your measurements with my eyes, though I must say I think your thighs are getting bigger every time I see you.’
Silas says, ‘Put it on young man, there’s a taxi waiting downstairs. No time to stand about. And put some of that pomade in your hair. This is an upscale club, you can’t come in looking like a vagrant, like you usually do.’
As Paul puts on his trousers Silas takes out a glass bottle with a big atomiser ball on a golden string, tasselled and bejewelled. He walks over to
Paul and shrouds him in a musky cloud. Then Silas stands back to watch Paul change his shirt, only coming over when he gets stuck on the cufflinks.
Silas commands the driver to the Peacock Club and seats Paul next to him. Ever since their arrival, Silas has been busy speaking to the hordes of people he seems to know. He doesn’t seem to remember Paul, which actually suits Paul fine. Silas laughs and waves to people, his cigar sending ash in little puffs and arcs everywhere.
Silas’ companion, a young boy impeccably dressed, in what Silas says is a tuxedo with a notch lapel, or rather a step collar, this side of the Atlantic, stands up, excuses himself with a little curtsey, and walks, as though he was on a tightrope, to the bathroom. It’s only then that Silas turns the other way, to Paul.
‘I know you don’t drink Paul. Did you ever?’
‘I used to.’
‘But I was thinking maybe today you could make an exception?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘How about I’ll never ask you again, if you just this once have a glass of bubbly? I just want to see you a bit perkier.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I know, but you could be better. I understand the news about your father must have hit you hard, as well as everything else.’
‘You’re right, but drinking won’t fix that.’
‘I know, and I’m not suggesting that either, and I’m not trying to convince you to drink yourself into a coma either, I’m just saying, let down your guard for one night only. It’s New Year’s Eve for God’s sake. Have a drink, have a laugh.’
‘Fine, but just the one glass.’
‘Just the one. I’ll get you the Pol-Roger, it’s very good.’
Silas signals for a waiter and soon the cork comes flying out, and the golden foam is poured into high flutes. Then the boy comes back, and they get another glass.
‘Sorry Paul, I didn’t introduce you properly,’ Silas says. ‘This is Sebastian. I know his father, he’s one of those men who owns ocean liners, you know one of those America Line ones, in this case Cunard.’ Paul nods and holds out his hand for a limpid shake. ‘So, Mr Cunard Junior let me introduce you to Paul MacAllister. Britain’s fastest man.’‘You a jockey?’ the boy asks, showing his ignorance. No person Paul’s size would be any good on a race horse, ‘Or is it cars?’
‘Bikes.’
‘Bikes?’
‘Velodromes mostly.’
‘I see. It’s not for me, but a lot of the people, you know the people working at my father’s company, especially at the docks, you know the thicker types, riveters and joiners, they like these spectacles.’
‘But you’ve never been yourself?’ Paul asks.
‘No.’
‘I could get you some seats if you were interested?’
‘That’s nice of you Paul. Sure, I’ll contact you through Silas here, our mutual friend and rogue, if I ever get the urge.’
‘Anytime.’
‘Speaking of the urge, can I speak to you in private Silas?’
Silas looks to Paul – whose glass is full again – smiles and stands up. Paul empties the glass, the soft bubbles tickling his nose, and starts walking to the bar, then stops and holds onto a pillar, his head a gyroscope. Despite not drinking much, he’s not fit to walk. He plots out a route from where he is to where he needs to be, the bar fifteen feet away, past things he can hold onto. This includes plants, the wall, a sturdy man’s shoulders, and the beginning of the bar, a service area busy with staff.
Paul’s not convinced the effect of the champagne alone could have done this to him. After a while of drinking water and orange juice Paul feels better and risks letting go of the bar he’s been holding onto with knuckles going whiter and whiter. Silas catches his eye and beckons him over. This time Paul chances it and walks straight across the floor to their booth. He sways, narrowly missing a waiter carrying a huge platter covered with a silver dome. He bumps into two women dancing; their feet so fast, they’re just a blur. The women laugh, take his hands and swing him around to the music – a fast brass-driven ragtime – which doesn’t help his progress. When they let go, to dance with another more malleable, and richer, victim, Paul sets off for the table. When he finally arrives he’s out of puff. Not bad for a semi-professional athlete.
Silas’ friend is off again, ordering something, inhaling something, smoking something. Kissing someone, fixing something, and in general spending an enormous amount of money. Silas leans close to Paul and says, ‘Sebastian is a very, very talented artist you see. He asked me to sit for him. He was a bit bashful about asking, that’s why he wanted to do it tête-à-tête.’
‘That’s nice of him. Is it a portrait? Will you end up looking like a king?’
‘I don’t think it’ll be quite as regal as that, but you never know.’
Just then the boy comes over with four waiters behind him. He starts conducting along to the music that’s playing and at the end of a big crescendo he waves his arms about and the three waiters in the front, all with reserved smiles, each pop a cork of champagne, GH Mumm this time, Silas tells Paul. The fourth one carrying a large tray of glasses walks into the middle of the circle they form and soon all the glasses are full. With a flick of the wrist Silas sends them out into the crowd, while the first waiter opens another bottle, in a more restrained way, for the booth.
There’s singing and shouting. Then, noticing ripples in the crowd, Paul and Silas stand up, to see better. Silas consults his pocket watch and explains that there will be a troupe of girls, twenty-eight of them for the year, who will perform at eleven. ‘It’s based on Swan Lake, but not as boring as the ballet,’ he says.
‘And there’s one more to join them for a more special show,’ here he elbows Paul in the side, ‘after the clock’s struck twelve.’
Paul nods.
‘It’s Danica Petrovious if you must know, but don’t go telling any of the other men or we’ll have a riot on our hands here.’
The name means nothing to Paul but he nods conspiratorially.
After the show, a mixture of string music and white feathers, of blaring trumpets and skirts thrown up to show bottoms, there’s just enough time to go out on the balcony to listen to Big Ben toll. Silas being Silas he has reserved a place on the balcony for himself, the shipping boy and Paul.
A man in what looks like mayoral chains stands up on a chair holding a huge hammer. He shouts ‘Oy, Oy!’ over and over until people fall silent, turn to him. He gets a pocket watch out and nods happily to himself.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the man says looking out over the crowd, ‘and present company. We are on the brink of another year. I don’t have any speeches to deliver, I’m not the kind, but I want to thank you for putting your trust in me this year too, and for continuing to come to this watering hole. I consider each and every one of you my friend.’ He raises the hammer over his head, and the chain jangles. He’s breathing deeply, and looks like an overweight Valkyrie, a god in oversized woman’s jewellery.
‘Please raise your glasses and join me in a toast, the last of the year.’
Silas produces three not so small glasses and pours greenish liquid into each of them, handing one to Paul and one to Sebastian.
‘To us,’ the man shouts, and the crowd answers in drunk unison, ‘To us.’
Silas says, ‘All in one go my boys, all in one go. Best to swallow quickly.’
Paul obeys, the drink setting fire to his mouth.
‘What was that?’ he asks once he can breathe again.
‘You’ve never had absinthe before?’ Sebastian smirks, but Paul can see that the boy’s eyes are watering too. ‘Better be careful with this stuff. It’s enough to drive you to cutting off your ears. But by God is it good for your vision. You look like an angel Silas.’
‘I am an angel,’ Silas exclaims.
‘That would be very boring,’ laughs Sebastian and puts a hand on Silas’ cheek.
‘Now, everyone,’ the man with the hammer intones in a voice used
to speaking to the masses, ‘if you could help me with the countdown.’
Silas busies himself with refilling the glasses as the man, and everyone around them say, Ten, Nine, Eight, then shout, Seven, Six, Five, Four, then scream at the top of their lungs, Three, Two, One; Happy New Year!
‘Happy New Year Paul, you lovely man,’ smiles Silas, closing his eyes and leaning in to kiss Paul on the mouth. Paul moves awkwardly to one side and Silas stumbles, off balance.
‘Happy New Year Silas,’ Paul says, giving Silas a firm handshake, and continuing with a bashful smile, ‘Silas, London is very different from Lennoxtown. I understand that you are, well, different. But I’m not like that. Whatever it is that makes you tick, well, I am not, not that kind of clock, if you get my meaning.’
Silas dissolves into tipsy giggles, ‘Not that kind of clock! I know, my dear boy, I know. You’re a tick and I’m a tock. Quite incompatible. I’m sorry. Put it down to New Year delirium.’
They both laugh, relieved, and turn to watch the scene unfold in the room. The Valkyrie has fallen off his chair and is now scampering around the room, laughing demonically. A huge net of balloons is being released into the crowd by a man in a jester’s costume and confetti shoots out of cannons set up in every corner of the room, manned by the feathered dancing girls. Then the girls disappear.
‘To get ready, shed some feathers, for the next instalment of their show,’ Silas says. Silas pours Sebastian another drink, but excuses Paul this time. People are singing and scraps of paper fall like snow around them. The others finish their drink and then Silas laughs. He throws his glass off the balcony and staggers away, making rounds in the crowd, kissing mouths and cheeks. People flock inside for the show and Paul is pulled along. Accepting a drink from one of the dancing cannon girls.
An hour later, after a breathless Danica, more hugs and kisses, the tap Charleston and the Pyramides smoked, Paul is unsteady again. He stands on the balcony looking out over London. Just letting his eyes roam streets he knows so well, corners he’s taken a hundred times. He plots shortcuts he’s never thought of. The air is cold, but not too cold.
Devil Take the Hindmost Page 23