David Wharton grew up in Northumberland and lives in Leicester, where he has worked in education for many years. He now divides his time between writing fiction and training English teachers. Finer Things is his first novel.
First published in Great Britain by
Sandstone Press Ltd
Dochcarty Road
Dingwall
Ross-shire
IV15 9UG
Scotland
www.sandstonepress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © David Wharton 2019
Editor: K.A. Farrell
The moral right of David Wharton to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Quotation from Allan Kaprow 1966 courtesy Allan Kaprow Estate and Hauser and Wirth.
‘Playwrights Against Apartheid’ declaration reproduced by kind permission of the Anti-Apartheid Movement Archives Committee.
The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.
ISBNe: 978-1-912240-69-2
Cover design by Stuart Brill
Typeset by Biblichor Ltd, Edinburgh
CONTENTS
May – November 1962
1
2
3
4
5
February – March 1963
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
March – May 1963
17
18
19
July 1963
20
21
Historical Notes
Acknowledgements
For Frances
A happening is a game with a high, a ritual that no church would want because there’s no religion for sale.
Allan Kaprow
How to Make a Happening
MAY – NOVEMBER 1962
1
Sometimes Delia thought life might be easier on the game. Like the old joke said, at least you weren’t on your feet all day, and hers ached from traipsing around stores. Selfridges Monday, Harrods Tuesday, Harvey Nichols Wednesday. Now it was Thursday, and Stella had asked her to take an apprentice round Barkers, show the girl how to go on.
Perhaps she should have said no. Stella would take no for an answer if you gave it to her reasonably – it was just that yes was often the wiser choice. So here Delia was, in Kensington Square at half past ten on a muggy May morning. Her scalp itched under a heavy brown wig, and the railings she was leaning against dug into her back. Teddy was supposed to have delivered the apprentice twenty minutes ago.
By quarter to eleven, Delia had taken three increasingly agitated turns around the square. Then, just as Teddy finally sauntered in at the Thackeray Street entrance with his arm around the girl’s waist, a copper on the beat happened to enter from Derry Street, at the opposite corner. Luckily, Teddy saw him first, and steered the girl straight back out again.
Delia stayed where she was. On the inside she might feel like she didn’t belong here, but nobody else could tell. She was dressed right. She knew how to make herself look to the rest of the world like Kensington Square was her sort of place. Teddy, on the other hand, stank of crime. If he’d been spotted near these genteel old houses in his too-small suit and greasy tweed overcoat, he’d most certainly have had to account for himself.
The copper strolled past, appraised Delia out of the corner of his eye, decided not to bother. Somebody’s mistress, he’d be thinking, or the posh kind of brass. He toddled around the square to reassure anyone who cared to look down from an elegant window that the law was ready, should it be required. Then off he went, back the way he’d come.
Teddy reappeared with the girl. A fleshy little thing, London Irish most likely, eighteen or nineteen. Almost pretty. Not quite. Cherry red lipstick.
‘You’re late,’ Delia said. ‘I’ve been waiting the best part of an hour.’
Teddy tipped back his pork pie hat, and a bead of sweat dribbled down his face. ‘Sorry darlin’. Got held up, if you know what I mean.’ He gave Delia a conspiratorial little smirk. ‘This here’s Maureen.’
‘Hello, Maureen,’ Delia said.
‘Hello, Miss.’
She fought off an impulse to pity this Maureen for her lumpen appearance and her Miss, like she was talking to a schoolteacher. Maybe it would work in the girl’s favour, having so little to draw the eye.
‘Now then, Maureen,’ Teddy said. ‘Delia’s one of my best hoisters, so you listen to what she tells you. You’ll just be reconnoitring to start with, but if things look promising, she’ll teach you what’s what, all right?’ He gave the kid a squeeze around her waist, and she flinched, doubtless remembering where the dirty bastard’s hands had been half an hour earlier.
‘You all done now, Teddy?’ Delia said.
‘Certainly am.’ He reprised his smirk to drive home the double entendre. No doubt he’d be even less subtle about it later on, telling the story to Tommy the Spade and Itchy Pete and the rest of those wankers in the Lamplighters.
‘Well, then. I expect you’ve other business.’
Teddy stood a few moments longer, obviously not wanting to leave Maureen with the impression that Delia had dismissed him.
‘Just bring the girl back to the Lamplighters after,’ he said at last.
‘Where else would I take her?’ Delia said. And seeing he was too thick or too stubborn to understand that hint, she added, ‘I work for your sister, not you, Teddy, so how about you clear off? You’ve already got me late starting.’
Teddy curled his lip and addressed himself to Maureen. ‘Moody bitch, ain’t she? On her rags, I expect.’ Then he skulked away. Just before he rounded the corner, he turned and called back, ‘Stella’s got hopes for that one, Dee. Mind you take care of her properly.’
He was gone before she had a chance to reply. Back home in Fenfield, she might have yelled at him across the square – to tell him she was sure those hopes of Stella’s for this girl didn’t include a poke off Teddy in some backstreet by the bins. But she couldn’t shout a thing like that here. Not in Kensington, where she had to pass for refined.
‘Ignore him, darling,’ she said. ‘Especially all that about me being one of his best hoisters. His – like he’s in charge of anything. Stella only keeps him in work out of pity, ’cause he’s her little brother. He’s nothing, Teddy Bilborough. Bleeding errand boy, that’s all.’
Maureen was not the type who could conceal her thoughts. In quick succession, her face revealed understanding, then shame, then despondency. Obviously, Teddy had convinced her he was a person of influence, that if she gave in to him he’d look after her interests. Better try and make her think about something else.
‘How’d you come to join our gang, darling?’ Delia asked.
The girl cheered up at this jollier recollection. ‘I used to work for the hairdresser who does Stella. Chantelle’s on Robson Street. Trainee stylist I was.’
‘She go there regular, does she?’ The idea of the boss sitting in a hairdresser’s, of her being anywhere other than the Lamplighters Arms, seemed unlikely somehow.
‘Nah. Chantelle does her at the pub. Private. Anyway, I had to leave, ’cause I couldn’t get the hang of the scissors. So Chantelle asks Stella if she’s got a spot for me. That was nice of her, she could’ve just given me the sack. But Chantelle always liked me, even though I didn’t have no aptitude for hairdressing.’ Maureen hesitated a mom
ent, then added, ‘Is Stella all right to work for? I mean – she’s a bit of a terror, ain’t she?’ The girl looked anxiously around her, as if at any second the boss herself might pop out from behind a corner or stick her head up from underneath a drain cover.
‘Stella’s fair. She’ll look after you as long as you’re straight with her.’ That was the truth, mostly. The rest could wait for another time, if this Maureen shaped up right and needed to know.
They headed out of the square. On the brief walk to Barkers, Delia hit her usual brisk pace, while Maureen scuttled alongside, puffing and struggling, three short steps to each of the older woman’s two long ones. Slow witted and slow moving, Delia thought. Not much hope for a hoister who could neither talk her way out of trouble nor run away from it.
‘What was it Teddy said we’d be doing first?’ the girl said between gasps. ‘Recan—something?’
‘Reconnoitring, love.’
‘Yeah, that. What is it?’
‘You’ve heard of casing a job? We’re making sure it’s safe to go to work. Reconnoitring – reconnaissance – that’s what they call it in the army.’
Maureen frowned as she clumsily worked out the route between this new information and something she had already heard. ‘Oh yes. Teddy told me he used to be a soldier.’
Delia snorted. ‘I bet he mentioned that right off, didn’t he?’ Teddy liked to think himself a military man, on account of having stayed in for the whole of his national service and almost being promoted to corporal. Comparably speaking, it was an achievement. The rest of his lot had either dodged the call-up or brought dishonourable discharges on themselves. Teddy was always saying he shouldn’t have left after his time finished. That he’d be a sergeant or even higher by now. Maybe he was right. He was useless at unregimented life.
Though she really didn’t like Teddy, Delia felt a kind of sympathy for him. He was a victim of his own character, she supposed. Then again, other people were victims of Teddy’s character too, like this girl he’d fucked that morning just because he could. Like Delia, who he’d kept waiting while he took advantage of the opportunity.
She was good at understanding other people, putting herself in their heads, seeing why they’d made their mistakes, but there was no use feeling sorry for them. When it came down to it, Teddy and Maureen were responsible for themselves, just like everyone else.
Approaching Barkers always gave her a thrill. The building’s vast exterior surprised her every time. With its austere sheets of windows, its unexpected curves, its flattened towers, Barkers seemed an odd thing to discover on a London street – as if a chunk of 1930s Manhattan had lost its way and come to ground in quite the wrong city. Of all the stores to go hoisting, this was her favourite.
She took Maureen into the Food Halls first. There they strolled past slabs of cured beef; bright tubes of French biscuits; a stack of triangular tinned hams with windmills on their green and red labels – an intoxicating wash of colours and smells. All the other departments had wheeled out the summer stock: swimsuits, thin cotton dresses, lightweight bedding in sharp new season shades. Here it was Christmas all year round: spiced, hedonistic, excessive.
Delia was sometimes tempted to slip a thing or two from the Food Halls into her bloomers. But there was no point, not when Tommy the Spade could nick the same stuff from any grocer and sell it for pennies. The valuable items – exotic meats, saffron, caviar, truffles – Barkers kept behind the counters, where fussy men in white jackets could dole them out by the quarter ounce. Too much trouble to thieve those in sale-able quantities, and anyway, Delia knew the interests of her clientele. Nice clothes you could flog easily but who’d buy shoplifted caviar? As for truffles, she had tried those once, mixed with butter on a cracker, at a party in Knightsbridge. She’d nearly thrown her guts up. For three days afterwards, she hadn’t been able to rid herself of the taste of decay.
She picked up an onion, held it to her nose, dislodged some outer skin with her thumbnail, and let a crisp, papery fragment drift to the floor. Returning the vegetable to its display she told Maureen under her breath, ‘We won’t be nicking anything right now. First you’ve to learn how to look out for shopwalkers.’
‘I ain’t never been anywhere like this before,’ Maureen said. ‘Spensive, ain’t it?’
‘Overpriced for idiots. The sort who’ll cough up double for digestive biscuits so they can take them home in a paper bag with Barkers of Kensington on it. Did you hear what I said about shopwalkers?’
Maureen nodded. ‘I got to learn how to look out for them.’
‘Good. Over there, by the fresh herbs,’ Delia murmured. ‘Blue coat. Just take a quick look. Tell me what you think.’
Maureen glanced at the woman clumsily, but briefly enough.
‘Shopwalker?’
‘Don’t think so. But what do you notice about her? Why doesn’t she fit in here?’
The apprentice gave the blue-coated woman another awkward look. ‘Clothes?’
‘Well done. What’s wrong with them?’
‘Too cheap.’
‘That’s right. Now keep an eye on her.’
Delia herself was dressed in items lifted from the best clothing departments in the city, and, because Stella had prepared her for the day’s work, so was Maureen. Nothing flashy, but all high quality. Unlike the shoplifters they pursued, shopwalkers had to buy their own clothes, and they weren’t paid well. They prowled about the stores in dumpy crap from Marks and Spencer, giving the alarm to any hoister who knew her business. But this woman’s tat came from British Home Stores, or somewhere worse. She was a shoplifter. Some amateur.
It wasn’t long before the woman confirmed Delia’s assessment. She picked up a can of pilchards, pretended to scrutinise the label, took a swift look about, dropped the item into her open handbag and scurried off to another part of the store. The move was so crass, even Maureen saw it. ‘She’s a hoister,’ the girl whispered excitedly. ‘Same as us.’
Delia placed her hand in the small of Maureen’s back and steered her out of the Food Halls. As they rode the escalator up to Soft Furnishings, she said, ‘That wasn’t any hoister. She was on her own. No gang behind her, and no skill. No sense either. If she isn’t caught today, she will be tomorrow, or the day after. And for a can of bleeding pilchards! You see that one again, or one like her, you keep well away, Maureen.’
They toured the whole store, every department twice. Along the way, Delia pointed out important things for Maureen to remember. In Haberdashery, she bought three coat buttons and a bobble of black cotton thread.
‘My niece here needs to learn to sew,’ she told the assistant as she paid. Delia had listened carefully to the posh types slumming it in Finlay’s Soho clubs. She could imitate their moneyed drawl impeccably. ‘Her husband’s coat has lost all of its buttons. Every single one! I can’t imagine what they teach in school these days, but a girl ought to be able to darn a hole and stitch a button on, don’t you think?’
‘Certainly, Madam.’ The assistant was a woman in late middle age wearing far too much make-up. She had tried to fill in all her wrinkles with powder. Close up like this she looked horrible.
‘Tell me, what are the “in” colours this season?’ Delia asked her.
‘Fresh yellow,’ the assistant said. ‘And cornflower blue.’
‘Oh yes, we’ve seen a lot of those up in the womenswear department, haven’t we Charlotte?’
Maureen had been thoroughly briefed for this moment. She assented with a nod and a close-mouthed ‘Mmmmm’.
‘Just had her teeth done,’ Delia explained in confidential tones. ‘Won’t let anyone see the braces. Well, thank you very much. Perhaps we’ll take a look at those yellows and blues again. I could do with a new summer dress.’
They left the store then, and headed for Kensington Gardens. Delia dumped the buttons and cotton in the first bin they passed.
‘Why’d you do that?’ Maureen asked.
‘Can’t sew. Never sewed a thin
g in my life. I only bought them so we’d look like customers.’
Maureen looked alarmed. ‘We wasn’t being followed, was we? Not by one of them shopwalkers?’
‘Course we weren’t. That’s not the point. Shopwalkers are the least of your worries, darling. I know every shopwalker in this store, pretty much every one in every store, actually. It’s the rest of them who’ll catch you out. There’s all sorts of eyes in a place like Barkers. Assistants, porters, customers as well. You’ve got to be careful not to stick in anyone’s memory.’ She tapped her temple to reinforce the idea. ‘See, when you go back next time, you don’t want someone thinking, “Who’s that over there? I’m sure I know her” – specially if it’s right when you’re popping something in your bloomers, because then—’
‘What?’
Even saying it aloud could be unlucky. But Maureen was too dopey to put things together for herself. ‘Well, then you’d be screwed, wouldn’t you? That’s why I bought the buttons.’
‘Sorry Delia, I don’t get it,’ the girl said mournfully. ‘I’m not very bright, am I?’
‘You’re fine. It’s a lot to take in, all this. Think about it though, Maureen. We’d been walking round that store for more than a couple of hours, and not bought a thing. Maybe we were starting to send someone’s radar bleeping.’
‘Radar?’
The note of alarm in Maureen’s voice made Delia smile. ‘Not real radar, love. They haven’t got that in shops. Not yet. I mean one of them might start feeling suspicious, that’s all. But as soon as I picked up those buttons and paid for them, I turned into a customer. Not an important customer, mind you, just a person they can forget. Some run-of-the-mill old bird.’
‘You ain’t old, Delia,’ Maureen protested.
‘Nice of you to say.’ And at thirty-eight still true, Delia thought, just about. ‘But if you go back and ask that assistant what my age was, I bet she’ll tell you forty-five at least. Fifty, maybe. ‘Cause she’ll be guessing. She won’t remember much about me – not my eyes, not my hair, not my height. All I was to her was a customer, not a person. She looked at me, but she didn’t see me.’
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