"More off than on. You'll be short-handed for a bit. It'll make more work for you. Serves you right. Get onto the agency for another barman and make sure this one is straight. Okay?"
"Okay, Jack - right away." Matthews nodded, relieved it was over. Then he caught sight of me. "Morning, Mr Harris, sir. It's good to see you-" he almost said "out" - but stopped himself in time. It wasn't his day. He gave a half-hearted smile and said, "It's good to see you again, Mr Harris."
"And you," I said, and we left.
Jack's car was outside. Not many in Battersea own a Rolls-Royce and it would have excited envy in most. But I never met anyone envious of Jack. Most of the locals are downright proud of him. They know he is rich, stinking rich by their standards, but they don't mind that. He is a character, larger than life and twice as colourful. Dozens of locals owe him a few bob and hundreds owe him a favour. Even that can cause resentment - but never with Jack. As far as Battersea is concerned Jack is 'local boy makes good' and unlike others they could name - which generally means me Jack never grew too big for his boots when he made his money. He didn't move to a posh part of London - he just stayed in Battersea and turned The Dog's Home into an institution.
As restaurants go The Dog's Home is unique. Certainly in London and I should know. There's not much to it from the outside. It's on the corner of two rows of terraced houses - those tall, thin, four-storey town houses which sprang up in London a hundred years ago. Jack bought four of them with my money in 1964. Then he gutted them and made them into one building inside. People thought he was mad when he talked of opening a classy restaurant. In a place like Battersea! I was certain he would never make a go of it. That's why I told him to keep the money - I was sure it was lost anyway. But Jack just winked and said he knew what he was doing.
It took the builders months to finish to Jack's satisfaction, and he was away for weeks at a time while the work went on. Matthews was running The Blue Posts for him by then, and another manager looked after The Golden Lion - so his business ticked over during his absences. But where Jack went was a mystery. When he came home at weekends he avoided talking about it. Those who asked were given a grin and the answer that he was getting ready to open his restaurant. That's all he told anyone - including me.
Then it came to the sign going up. The Dog's Home. What a name! Classy restaurants should have classy names. How can you serve a cordon bleu meal in a place called The Dog's Home? But Jack just shrugged: "Battersea Dog's Home is known the world over. It's almost the only famous thing in Battersea. So I'm paying a tribute to my old home town." He grinned when he said it but not everyone shared his sense of humour. I shook my head and told him to see a psychiatrist.
Two weeks before the place opened, vans started to arrive from all over - Chester, Exeter, Norwich - everywhere it seemed but London. The joke at the time was that they were full of dog biscuits. But in fact they were stacked high with furniture - antique furniture. Hepplewhite sideboards, Pembroke tables, davenports, Victorian Canterbury's, Welsh dressers, all sorts of stuff. And not just furniture either. Bracket clocks, long-case clocks, oil paintings, sculptures, huge gilt mirrors, and silver and pewter bearing the crests of the oldest families in the country. The list seemed endless. Jack had raided sale rooms and auction houses far and wide for that lot. Some went into store but most went into The Dog's Home and became part of the reason for the phenomenal success of the place.
My way of opening a new restaurant was to call in Conran's Design Team or the boys from Knolle International and write them an open cheque. Certainly the furnishings became part of the place - fixtures and fittings to be depreciated on a balance sheet. But Jack's furnishings are all for sale. Not that anything is visibly priced, but if anyone admires something - a painting, or the silver on the table, or the decanters from which the house wine is served Jack, will appear, with the history of the piece - and its price. I thought his knowledge of antiques was a bit sketchy at first but over the years he has turned into a walking encyclopaedia, so that now collectors from all over dine with Jack when they are in London. I once saw a party of Americans finish dinner and take a table and chairs, and a dozen other pieces, away with them in a convoy of cabs. God knows what the Savoy said when that lot hit them at two in the morning.
The Dog's Home is like a series of salons inside - that's the only way I can describe it. Not a single room has more than six tables, but the rooms are inter-connected by tall double doors and the effect is amazingly graceful. Proper picture lights show off the paintings, but except for those the illumination is low and intimate. After dinner, people adjourn to the sitting rooms - full of chaises longues and stuffed ottomans - to play backgammon or chess using pornographic pieces carved from ivory, or just to sit around drinking. And talking of course. The talk is something you always remember after a night at The Dog's Home. Mainly because the people who frequent it are as individualistic in their lives as Jack is in his. Theatricals, artists splurging a commission, writers pretending to 'soak up atmosphere' when all they are doing is enjoying themselves. Jack treats them all as equals and wanders from room to room - joining uninvited into this or that conversation - pouring himself a glass of their wine - arguing with them, insulting them, joking - or sometimes, if a conversation is really interesting - he'll just slump into a chair and unashamedly eavesdrop.
Jack and Maria live in The Dog's Home. They have a couple of bedrooms on the top floor, but no other private rooms. That's the way they run the place - as their home. If Jack dislikes someone he'll tell them to their face, ask them to leave, never to darken his door again. It's a hell of a way to run a restaurant, but it certainly adds to the atmosphere. Makes it like a club, or a country house party with Jack as the host. It's more a way of life with him than a way of earning a living. The only thing he cares more about is Maria, his wife. She was in one of the sitting rooms when we came in from The Blue Posts. She took one look at me, gave a little cry of welcome, and threw herself into my arms. Her heart pumped against my chest and I could smell the fragrance of her hair. Then her arms reached up to pull my mouth down to hers.
Jack shouted, "He's been without a woman for two years. Over excite him now and like as not he'll rape you on that bloody chesterfield."
She pulled away, breathless from the kiss, her arms still about my shoulders. "Oh will you Sam? Promise? Promise to rape me?"
I kissed her again and whispered something unrepeatable in her ear. She drew back, wide-eyed, blushing and laughing, and swearing softly in Italian.
Jack's got an eye for beautiful things, but Maria is the loveliest. Pale-skinned and raven-haired, black eyes that dance, and lips which curve provocatively. That day she was dressed in a cotton shirt and black velvet trousers, and she wore nothing on her feet. She had the figure of a young girl which isn't bad for a woman I knew to be thirty-five.
"Oh, Sam - it's so good to see you." She touched my face, tracing the line of my jaw with her fingertips, the way a sculptor might examine a subject before starting work.
"No scars," I said, a shade self-consciously.
"None that show anyway." Her eyes were moist when she spoke.
Then she kissed me again and took my hand. "Sam, come and meet my cousin, Lucia."
Only then did I see the other girl. She sat watching us, grey eyes slightly amused, the shadow of a smile at the edge of her lips, light brown hair kept in place by a tortoiseshell comb. Her skin was bronzed that honey gold which people acquire on the Riviera and her simple white dress emphasised her tan. She sat with her legs crossed and one arm draped along the back of the Victorian sofa like a glossy print in Vogue.
I said, "Hello, Lucia."
She shook hands with a cool, firm grip. "Hello, Sam." Her voice was low-pitched, almost husky, the sort of smoky timbre you sometimes hear in a nightclub singer.
"Well-" I said, foolishly awkward, "This is a surprise. Two beautiful women to greet me."
Jack grinned. "Lucia's here on holiday. Been here a week and packs the
place out - they dribble so much looking at her that their food gets cold."
"Jack!" she scolded. "Some of the dirty old men you get in here would dribble at a twelve-year-old schoolgirl."
He was delighted. "They do - they do!" he shouted. "But only when they wear those kinky gym slips."
Maria was laughing and scolding at the same time. "Will you two stop it? Come on, let's eat. Sam, they're driving me mad - they tease each other from morning till night."
At the door she stopped and looked up at me. "Oh Sam, it's just so good to see you - so very good." Then she hugged me again.
Jack roared: "Will you stop kissing him. He'll get so bloody horny he won't be able to sit down - then we'll never get to eat."
It was fun that lunch. Good food, chilled wine, crystal glasses two beautiful women, Jack and me. Like coming alive again. Maybe animals feel that way after hibernating through the winter. Jack regaled us with stories about his clientele and we did a fair bit of reminiscing about the good old days. Apparently Lucia already knew something of my background but Jack insisted on recounting some of my past exploits, building up the successes and turning setbacks into hilarious anecdotes. The Dog's Home is closed during the day, so we had the place to ourselves. Maria had prepared the meal before I arrived, and afterwards we moved upstairs to the big sitting room for coffee and brandy.
"I was down at Rex Place yesterday, Sam," Maria said. "Gave the place a good airing and restocked your booze cupboard."
Kay had left me and the mews cottage at the same time - while I was languishing in Brixton - after which she had sent the keys to The Dog's Home for safe keeping.
I said, "Thanks - but you shouldn't have troubled."
"No trouble. Matter of fact I was there last week. I took your suits to be cleaned. They're back now, hanging in your wardrobe. And I gave the place a tidy up - cleared out the closets and so on." She picked at a loose thread in her trousers, and when she looked up she was blushing.
Her red cheeks startled me. "What did you find? Skeletons in the cupboards?"
"Silly," she said, and looked away.
I wasn't sure what to make of it, so I mumbled my thanks and said she ought not to have gone to so much trouble.
"I told you - it was no trouble. Anyway, Lucia gave me a hand. She did most of the cleaning."
Lucia was sitting at my side, and when I turned I caught her staring at me. It startled me, looking into those level grey eyes, especially as she made no effort to conceal the fact that she had been watching me. Someone once wrote that the eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul. I remember being puzzled as to its meaning, but the look Lucia gave me was at least a clue. It suggested experience quite beyond her years. I marked her down as being in her middle twenties and I was sure I was right, but she had the poise of a much older woman. She sat there, confident and assured, waiting for me to thank her for cleaning my place, her eyes holding my look without rushing me, one arm along the back of the sofa, legs crossed and her body half turned towards me. The scooped neckline of her dress revealed the pale swelling mounds of her breasts and I could just smell the light fragrance of her scent.
"You're very beautiful," I said. Of course, it was a damn silly thing to say but I suppose the wine had got to me a bit - that, and the warm happiness of being back among friends.
She smiled faintly. "Thank you - but I'm not sure that's a very great compliment. After all, you've not had much to look at for the past two years."
Jack snorted. "He did a hell of a lot of looking before."
"So I hear," she said, her eyes still holding mine. "Maria's been telling me."
"Oh?" Almost reluctantly I turned to Maria.
"It seemed only fair to warn her." Maria looked shyly pleased with herself.
It had turned four, but we chatted away inconsequentially for a while longer, which was selfish of me because I knew Jack and Maria usually slept for an hour in the afternoons - most people do when they're up until three or four every morning. But eventually I summoned up the energy to leave.
Jack asked, "Where now?"
"Back to Rex Place. An hour in the shower to get the smell of Brixton out of my pores."
Maria went to fetch the keys and when she came back Jack was asking my plans for the evening.
I said I would look around town. "Meet up with a few people. See what's changed - that kind of thing."
"Take Lucia," Maria suggested. "She'd love to go. We haven't shown her the night life yet. It's difficult - dragging Jack away from this place-"
"No!" Jack startled us. "Not tonight," he fairly snapped the words out. He must have caught our expressions, because he shrugged and looked away. "I mean, not the first night. It'll be best for Sam to wander round by himself."
It made an awkward moment. We were all standing, Jack with my old raincoat in his hands, obviously biting his tongue. I tried to make a joke of it by saying to Lucia, "You've found a big brother. I'll persuade him I'm a reformed character if you'd like to come?"
She hesitated for a split second, then smiled. "I'd love to - but not tonight, I'm washing my hair-"
Maria put her hand on my arm. "Come to lunch tomorrow, Sam. Make the arrangements then."
My disappointment must have shown because Lucia smiled as she touched my hand goodbye. "Till tomorrow then," she said, "and I look forward to it."
So I said goodbye, kissed Maria, and then followed Jack downstairs. He insisted on lending me his car and I was about to drive away when he said, "Do me a favour, Sam. I'm worried about a place I've bought. Top end of Baker Street. I've got the ground floor and the basement. Big it is, eight or nine thousand square feet. Have a look at it for me, will you? It's empty at the moment, but I think it'll make a good club." He smiled, "that's if you're interested."
"I'm interested."
He nodded. "And about cash, Sam. Don't worry. When you're ready let me know. I've got the best part of a hundred grand not doing much at the moment."
"Partners?"
"I'd like that," he said solemnly. "But I've got enough on my plate. If you can sort your licences out and if Baker Street appeals to you, why not use the money to get going again? Pay me back when you feel like it."
What can you say to something like that? I got a bit choked up, punched him on the arm and promised to think about it. Then I drove back to the West End, full of warm thoughts about Jack and Maria, and cursing my clumsiness with Lucia. But I was quite right - she really was exceptionally good-looking.
Rex Place is just behind Park Lane. A hundred years ago the carriage trade stabled their horses there. Now all the little boxes have been converted into tiny dwellings, each with a glossy front door and a flower box window sill. Mine was standard size: a tiny entrance hall, sitting room, a kitchen-diner fit for a cabin cruiser, and an opening under the stairs euphemistically called 'a study'. Upstairs was a bedroom and a bathroom and that was the lot. The whole thing worth sixty thousand according to Collins - but that's inflation for you.
I was a bit wary about going back. The place held too many memories. Kay would fill every room, even though she had left months and months ago. The beginning of our married life had been spent at Rex Place, and it had been a happy time, despite what happened afterwards. But - memories or not - Rex Place was all I had left, so it had to be faced.
Once inside I knew why Maria had blushed. Everything was different - even the carpets and the paintings on the walls. Only the desk and the filing cabinet remained in their place in the alcove nothing else was the same. Jack and Maria had furnished it originally - as their wedding present, although neither had liked Kay. Now they had re-furnished it, from top to bottom. A Klee sketch replaced Kay's portrait in the sitting room, and upstairs my suits and other clothes were in the wardrobes - but nothing there belonged to Kay. Her photograph had gone from the dressing table and not as much as an old scarf remained to remind me of her. Even the bath towels were new, and the crockery and kitchen things were all quite different. Kay might never have
lived there.
I spent a long time in the shower and lay on the bed afterwards, thinking about all sorts but mainly my life and what I had made of it. Of where I had been and where I was going. I was forty-two. Ten years ago I had been rich and successful. Top of the heap. Now I had to start again from scratch, I wondered if I had the strength to do it all over again. But the shower relaxed me and the bed was luxuriously soft, so after a while I fell asleep.
The telephone woke me. "Sam, are you cross with me?" Maria asked.
I was still muzzy-headed but I mumbled my thanks before adding, "That's enough now, understand? No more surprises, no more handouts-"
"Handouts'." she yelped. "You wait till you get my bill."
"Okay - but you get the point?"
"I get the point." Then she added softly, "Sam, all the other stuff is in Jack's store - in case you ever want it - understand?"
"I understand - and thanks."
"For nothing," she snorted, "and don't be late for lunch tomorrow."
When she hung up I blessed her and went back under the shower. Good food and lovely women are not all you miss in jail. Apart from the loss of the big freedom, you miss all the little ones simple things like enjoying a shower in privacy, the smell of decent soap, the feel of proper bath towels, and clothes that are softer than flour sacks.
I planned my evening as I dressed. The people I would meet, the places I would visit: restaurants, bars, clubs and casinos. Only when I fumbled with my cufflinks did I realise how nervous I was. Being accepted back was the most important thing left to me. And of course I had to do it as soon as possible. Like falling off a horse, you simply climbed back into the saddle.
Looking back I realise what a fool I was. Even Collins had tried to warn me - with all that guff about taking my time. And Jack had seen it coming, which was why Lucia had been kept out of things that first night. But right at that moment I was so full of the welcome Jack and Maria had given me that I was blinded to everything else. Of course they were my closest friends, but I told myself I had others. After all, who had I hurt when I was top dog? Nobody, at least no-one I could think of. I had a stock of goodwill all over London - or so I thought - all ready to help me get going again. So by eight o'clock I was behind the wheel of the Corniche, dressed in a dinner jacket, with the evening ahead of me. And like a perfect fool I was looking forward to it.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 37