Potato Factory

by Bryce Courtenay

  Brodie tested the coin Ikey had given by biting down on it, then he shrugged, placed it in the pocket of his filthy waistcoat and beckoned for Ikey to follow him. They made their way through the dark shapes which seemed to be lying in every available space, some penny-a-nighters asleep seated, while tied about the neck with heavy twine to the banisters of the rickety stairs.

  Panting with the effort, Brodie halted as they came to the upper reaches of the house and stopped outside a door no more than four feet in height.

  ‘It be top room and there be no grate in there, so you’ll be wantin’ a blanket. That’ll be sixpence extra.’ Brodie pulled open the door to reveal a tiny attic with a dirty dormer window through which a pale slice of moon was shining across a window ledge crusted with snow. The window rattled loudly, and Ikey felt the freezing draught as the wind forced its way through the cracks in the frame. One of the men at his feet ceased snoring and moaned, then commenced to snoring again. The rhythm of the two men’s rough breathing filled the space around them, so that there seemed not an inch left for another person to occupy. Ikey, observing the moon, sensed that time was running out for him, that before it reached its fullness he should be safely on a ship to America.

  Ikey declined Brodie’s offer of a blanket, knowing it would be infested with vermin. He stepped over the two sleeping bodies to reach the straw pallet nearest the window where the cold seemed at once to be at its greatest. His nocturnal perambulations had been thrown into disarray for a second day running as Ikey lay down on the filthy straw. Wrapping his coat tightly about his aching body, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

  The following day Ikey went out early and purchased quill, blacking, paper and sealing wax, whereupon he hired the landlord Brodie’s tiny private parlour for a further shilling, with sixpence added for a fire in the hearth to burn all day.

  Ikey had also arranged with a small jeweller’s workshop to make him a copper cylinder nine inches long by an inch and a quarter wide in its interior, with a cap to fit over one end rounded in exactly the same manner as the end of a cigar cylinder. Ikey stressed that the cap should screw on and when tightened fit so snugly that it had the appearance of being one object with no separation, that should a finger be run over the point where the cap fitted to the body it would barely discern the join. Ikey instructed that the cylinder be ready late in the afternoon of the following day.

  Despite his outward appearance of complete disarray, Ikey was possessed of an exceedingly tidy mind. He liked his affairs to be well ordered, and the fact that he’d been forced to leave London at a moment’s notice left him with a great deal undone, the most important being the fortune which lay beyond his grasp within the safe in his Whitechapel home.

  For almost the entire coach journey to Birmingham his mind had been preoccupied with thoughts of how he might get his hands on all of the money he and Hannah jointly owned, leaving only the house and the stolen goods stored within it for her and the children.

  Ikey’s greatest fear was that she would send him packing without divulging her half of the combination of the safe, and then later have it drilled and tapped so that she might possess its entire contents. Genuine tears of frustration ran down his cheeks as he contemplated this ghastly possibility.

  Ikey sat down to the task of tidying up his affairs before leaving Britain. There would be no time in London, which he might be forced to leave after only a few hours. There were the little ratting terriers he kept, he must take care of their welfare; instructions for Mary should he not see her again; and letters to his contacts in London and on the continent. On and on he worked in his arachnoid hand, and it was quite late in the afternoon when Ikey had finally completed these business matters. He placed the letters in his great coat and went looking for the landlord. Ikey found him over the communal hearth stirring a large cauldron of cabbage soup, and carrying a steaming kettle in his free hand.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Ikey exclaimed. ‘It might be most profitable for you to step into your own little parlour, if you please, Mister Brodie.’

  ‘What? Right now? This very moment?’ Brodie answered, without looking up. ‘Can’t now! This soup what is blessed with ‘erbs and spices and all manner of tasty ingredients is about to come to the simmer. Then I must add a fine shank o’ veal and extra onions and potatoes to gift ‘er with a most delicate degustation.’

  Ikey laughed. ‘All you’ve ever added to your cabbage soup is the water what’s in that kettle! Come quickly, Mr Brodie, or you may be poorer to the tune of five shillings!’

  Brodie almost dropped the kettle in his haste to place it back on the hob and follow Ikey into the parlour.

  ‘Master Brodie can you repeat: “Dick Whittington’s ‘ungry cat ‘as come to fetch a juicy rat!”? Can you say that?’

  ‘Dick Whittington’s angry cat come to fetch a Jewish rat!’ Brodie repeated, then looked bemused at Ikey. ‘That’s daft, that is! Rats is rats, ain’t no Jewish rats, leastways not in Brum, that I can assure you! Rats ‘ere is Christian or not at all!’

  Ikey corrected Brodie and repeated the phrase, making the landlord say it over several times before asking him to go to the coach terminus the following morning at precisely ten o’clock, to spend the password he’d just rehearsed on Josh and to receive a note from the boy to be returned to him.

  Brodie scratched his head, bemused. ‘When I done this you’ll give me five shillin’s?’ He was plainly waiting for some catch.

  ‘If you takes a most round-about route ‘ome and makes sure you ain’t followed there’ll be two shillin’s additional comin’ to you, Master Brodie!’

  ‘You’ve found yer man, ‘ave no fear o’ that - I can disappear in a single blinkin’ and you wouldn’t even know I was gorn. Ain’t no lad on Gawd’s earth could ‘ave the cunnin’ to follow me,’ Brodie bragged.

  Ikey left soon afterwards to visit an eating establishment in an adjoining rookery only slightly less notorious than the one in which he was staying. Here Ikey had often done deals with thieves and villains and the landlord welcomed his custom and willingly allowed him credit, his bills to be paid at the end of each visit.

  This time, though, as Ikey greeted him he seemed less sure, and asked if he might have some money on account as the debt for food supplied to Ikey’s guest was mounting by the hour.

  The small room to which the landlord escorted him was almost completely occupied by the corpulence of Marybelle Firkin who sat at a table strewn with bones and crusts and empty dishes, as well as the half-eaten carcass of a yellow-skinned goose. She welcomed Ikey with a chop rimmed with a layer of shining white fat held in one hand, and a roasted potato in the other. Ikey looked around anxiously and was most relieved to see the hamper occupying one corner of the room. Marybelle pointed the chop directly at Ikey and spoke with her mouth crammed, a half masticated potato dropping into her lap.

  ‘It was marvellous, eh, Ikey? If I says so meself, that performance on the coach were fit to be seen by the bleedin’ Prince o’ bleedin’ Wales!’ She cackled loudly, more food tumbling from her mouth. ‘Better than any I performed on the stage in me ‘ole career. What say ya, lovey? Was it the best ya seen?’

  Ikey smiled thinly, his hands expanded trying to match her enthusiasm. ‘What can I say, Marybelle? You was magnificent, my dear, the performance of a lifetime by a the spian o’ rare and astonishin’ talent!’

  Marybelle blushed at the compliment and swallowed, her mouth empty and her voice suddenly soft and low. ‘Ah, that’s nice, Ikey. ‘Ere, ‘ave a pork chop, do ya the world, skin ‘n bone you is, there ain’t nuffink to ya!’

  Ikey winced and drew back. ‘No thanks, it ain’t kosher!’

  ‘Suit yerself, lovey, there’s a lot o’ nourishment in a pork chop and very little in religion!’ Then, pointing to the hamper, she declared, ‘All be safe. Paper’s come to no ‘arm.’

  Ikey nodded. ‘Thank you, my dear, I am most obliged, most obligin’ly obliged.’

  Ikey appeared to hesitate, the
n continued, ‘Mary-belle, I needs a favour done and in return I shall put you in the way o’ a nice little earner.’

  ‘That’s nice, lovey. What is it ya want, then?’ She pointed at his coat. ‘Sew up the tear in yer coat? I ain’t much of a dab ‘and at sewin’ I warns ya.’

  Ikey grinned, though in a feeble way. ‘A bigger favour, my dear.’

  ‘Bringin’ yer paper, that weren’t favour enough?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, and you shall be paid the fifty pounds I promised you.’

  ‘And this favour, it’s worth more’n fifty pounds?’

  ‘Much more, if you plays your cards right!’

  It is only necessary briefly to describe the scene which took place in the bank, and the look of consternation on the faces of Silas and Maggie the Colour when Marybelle Firkin arrived in Ikey’s place. She carried a letter from Ikey stipulating that she should act as his negotiating agent for the business at hand and the letter further asked that the banker, Mr David Daintree, sign the letter and return it to Marybelle as proof that she had been present. The letter also required the signatures of Silas and Maggie Browne.

  Indeed, Ikey was wise to seek proof that the meeting had taken place, for the husband and wife team had conspired to rob him. They had concluded that he had no ongoing supply of paper, but only what he would bring to the bank. If they could rob him of the letter of credit and the money on his way back to London, or even at his place of residence in Birmingham - after all, he was not the sort who could go to the police - then they would possess the plates and the paper without having paid for them.

  Mr Daintree, impressed with the handling of so great a sum of money, conducted the proceedings with the utmost rectitude, carefully pointing to where Marybelle should sign her name. When Marybelle handed the hamper over to Silas and Maggie he retired, as had been arranged, to a small inner chamber, while the two of them closely examined the hamper’s contents.

  Maggie then took a sheet of paper from the banker’s desk and using his quill filled nearly half a page in her neat handwriting. Then she dusted the paper and allowed it to dry, whereupon she handed it to Silas. He read it, smiled, nodded and returned it to her, whereupon she indicated that he call the bank officer to return. Neither Silas nor Maggie passed so much as a single word in Marybelle’s direction. Marybelle sat patiently, thinking about Ikey’s promise of a fortune and trying to imagine how much nourishment it might buy. How many roast beef sides, fat geese, plump partridges, chops and pies and every manner of sweet dish known to the human species.

  With the return of Mr Daintree the couple allowed that the credit note be duly signed in her presence by the bank officer. But before handing it to Marybelle, Maggie placed the page of writing on the desk in front of her.

  ‘This be the document we wish to ‘ave Mrs Firkin sign before we ‘ands over letter o’ credit,’ she said bluntly, her eyes challenging the banker.

  The letter simply stated that as Ikey had not arrived at the bank himself to collect the letter of credit and as Silas and Maggie the Colour had no way of knowing whether Marybelle was not an impostor, the letter of credit could only be presented in London by Ikey himself. If the Coutts & Company Bank in London did not inform Mr David Daintree of the Birmingham City and County Bank that Mr Ikey Solomon had himself presented the letter of credit within one week of the date which appeared on it, then the money should be returned to Silas and Maggie Browne and the goods returned. But Mr Ikey Solomon himself and no other.

  ‘Is what they done against the laws of England?’ Marybelle asked the bank officer.

  Daintree frowned, pinching the brow of his nose. ‘No, not strictly. A credit note issued in a contract involving two specific parties and identifying one specific party to another specific party and not redeemable by a third party is not uncommon,’ he replied, though he was clearly bemused.

  Marybelle shrugged. The implications were not lost on her. The husband and wife team would attempt to rob Ikey of the letter before he arrived back in London. She well recalled the look of consternation on their faces when she’d entered the banker’s personal chambers. Any plans to retrieve the money and letter of credit, or to harm Ikey, would be based on someone identifying him as he came out of the bank. She, on the other hand, was unknown to any potential robbers.

  Marybelle was a brave and tough woman not accustomed to being threatened and she set great trust in Ikey’s cunning, so she comforted herself with the thought: Since when is two clumsy bloody country bumpkins a match for two London Jews, fuck their goyim eyes!

  ‘Where does I sign?’ Marybelle asked smiling.

  ‘Really, Mrs Firkin, I should caution you, this may not be in Mr Solomon’s interest!’ the banker exclaimed.

  Maggie the Colour jumped from her chair and accosted the man from the bank. ‘Really, sir! We don’t know who this woman be! We’ve never laid eyes on ‘er before today! We ‘ave no specimen o’ Mr Solomons’ signature, not the least identification, maybe the letter what introduced ‘er is a trick? Maybe she stole the merchandise what we just paid for? We’d be plain daft if we took chance with letter o’ credit!’ Maggie the Colour’s brittle tone suddenly softened and she smiled. ‘You see, sir, Mr Solomons is much respected by me ‘usband and me. If this woman is an impostor and ‘as done him wrong, then, at great personal expense to ourselves, we ‘ave protected ‘is interests with the letter what I just wrote?’

  ‘What about the small scrap o’ paper what was in yer letter? Ikey said it were ‘is affy davy, what made every-fink kosher?’

  ‘Paper?’ Maggie held up Ikey’s letter. ‘This be no proof ‘e wrote it. It could be plain and simple forgery!’

  ‘Not that! The small piece o’ paper what was a triangle shape come wif that?’

  Maggie the Colour looked at Mr Daintree and then at Silas, her expression plainly bemused. She shook her head slowly. ‘Paper? What was triangle shape? That be plain daft for letter writin’. Small piece you say, triangle shape?’ she repeated and held up Ikey’s letter again. ‘This be the only paper Mr Solomon sent and it be rectangle, not triangle and not small neither. I doesn’t know what you can possibly mean, Mrs Firkin.’

  Mary sighed, her huge bosoms quivering. ‘Give us the quill then. Yer a right pair o’ villains, you two!’ She reached out for the paper which now lay on the desk in front of the banker. ‘Be so kind as to show us the exact place where I puts me mauley, Mr Daintree, sir.’ Then she looked up and asked, ‘Is the address of ‘er and ‘er ‘usband on this ‘ere letter?’

  Mr Daintree glanced at the letter and pointed to the left-hand corner. ‘It’s right there where it should be,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Will ya read it out loud, lovey? We don’t want them two doin’ a runner if they’s up to some monkey trick!’

  The banker, somewhat bemused, read the address out aloud.

  Marybelle looked at Silas and Maggie Browne. ‘I’ll remember that I will, make no mistake!’ Whereupon, her pink tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth, she tediously applied her signature to the letter. ‘There you are, missus,’ she said at last, and then cast a second malevolent glance at the husband and wife. ‘Be that good faith enough for the likes o’ you lot?’

  Maggie the Colour sniffed, and gave the letter to the banker to apply his signature, and thereafter she made Silas do the same. Marybelle recognised in him the same tedious effort in signing his name and concluded that he too had difficulty with writing.

  Marybelle then addressed the banker. ‘Now, if ya please, sir, I requests the pleasure o’ the monickers o’ them two on the letter what Mr Solomon gave me what states my position as negotiator on ‘is be’arf!’

  Daintree attempted to conceal his grin. ‘Of course, Mrs Firkin, it is completely in order for you to do so.’ He picked up the letter from where it lay on the desk and handed it to Maggie the Colour who read it with her lips pursed and an altogether sour expression upon her face.

  ‘Humph!’ she said finally and took the quill up again,
signing the letter, as did Silas and Daintree, who blotted it carefully, before handing it back to Marybelle.

  Maggie the Colour then asked the banker if he would be so good as to have a clerk make two fair copies of the letter she had written, this to be on bank stationery. When these arrived back she read both carefully, they were duly signed again by all four people present and the original given to the banker for safekeeping. A fair copy was handed to both Marybelle and the Brownes.

  With this seemingly watertight agreement in their possession, Maggie and her husband could now set about the task of preventing Ikey from ever presenting their letter of credit. The total cost to them of the paper and plates would be five hundred pounds, though, if they could apprehend him soon enough, the larger part of this too might be recovered.

  Marybelle Firkin was helped to her feet by a triumphant Silas Browne and a smiling Maggie the Colour. A concerned David Daintree placed the letter of agreement, Ikey’s returned letter and the letter of credit in a heavy linen envelope, sealed it and pressed the bank’s insignia into the hot wax. Then he rose and took Mary-belle by the arm and guided her to the doorway. Mary-belle paused at the door and turned to face the smug-looking couple. She smiled sweetly. ‘I wish ya both meesa meschina!’ she said, a Yiddish expression meaning, ‘I wish you sudden death’.

  Mr Daintree handed Marybelle the envelope, first cautioning Maggie the Colour and Silas Browne to remain seated in his chambers until he returned, then he walked Marybelle across the marble foyer of the bank chambers to the front door.

  ‘Ten minutes it says in the letter? You’ll not let them two miserable bastards out o’ yer chambers for ten minutes, will ya?’ Marybelle paused. ‘Mind, I’d be right obliged if you’d make that a bit more, wotcha say, lovey?’

  Mr David Daintree, member of the board of Birmingham City and County Bank, smiled. ‘My pleasure, Mrs Firkin, fifteen minutes at the least, what?’ He turned and instructed the guard at the door to see Marybelle safely to her carriage where two footmen with red rosettes on their top hats waited to work her enormous frame through the carriage door and safely into the interior.