Potato Factory

by Bryce Courtenay

  Before pulling away the coachman reported quietly to Marybelle that four horsemen of rough looks and a young lad of about ten were waiting under a group of elm trees not fifty feet from the bank, and that he’d taken the trouble to make a casual enquiry to the doorman who’d indicated that they’d arrived shortly after two in the afternoon.

  ‘Watch to see if they follow us,’ Marybelle instructed.

  After an hour the coachman stopped at a village inn and Marybelle was helped from the carriage into the hostelry, and taken immediately to a small room which contained only a table and two chairs. The room was fuggy with the steam of dishes covering the table. The landlord bid Marybelle bon appetit and bowing, backed out of the door, locking it behind him. A few minutes later she heard the rattle of a key again and Ikey stepped into the room and locked the door behind him.

  ‘Loverly grub! I got to ‘and it to ya, Ikey, ya knows a good nosh ‘ouse when ya sees one.’ Marybelle pointed to the envelope which sat on the only corner of the table not covered in dishes. ‘There you are, lovey, signed, sealed and delivered by yers truly!’

  Ikey snatched at the envelope and tore it open. ‘You wasn’t followed, was you, my dear?’

  Marybelle’s mouth was already full with a bite from a large chicken pie, and she shook her head unable to answer. Ikey waited until she could speak. ‘Nobody followed us, but in the bank, there was complications.’ She pointed to the envelope in Ikey’s hand. ‘Inside is a letter what I didn’t know what to do about, so I signed.’ Marybelle looked concerned. ‘I only ‘opes I done right?’

  Ikey opened the sealed envelope and examined the letters within. He shook his head and grinned in admiration as he read Maggie the Colour’s letter. Ikey looked up at Marybelle, who once again had her mouth full. ‘You done good to sign, my dear.’

  Marybelle swallowed, and with her mouth now empty she reached for a chicken leg and waved it in Ikey’s direction. ‘They be after ya, Ikey Solomon.’ Still holding the chicken leg, she took up a roasted potato, popped it into her mouth and continued talking, with her mouth full. ‘We wasn’t followed ‘cause the people they sent didn’t know to follow me.’ She frowned. ‘But they’ll be lookin’ for ya, mark me words, they’s a right pair o’ villains them two!’ She giggled. ‘I wished them meesa meschina!’

  Ikey laughed. ‘More like they wished me!’ he said.

  Marybelle sucked the flesh of the entire chicken leg from the bone with a soft plop and commenced to chew. Ikey’s hand went into his coat, and he withdrew it holding the copper tube he’d ordered in the shape of a cigar container, though somewhat thicker and longer. He placed it on the table beside the letter of credit.

  ‘They aim to do ya in before ya gets ‘ome wif that there letter o’ credit. That’s what ‘er letter was all about, weren’t it, Ikey? Do ya in, steal yer letter and then claim the contract’s been broken!’ Marybelle cocked her pretty head to one side and gave Ikey an ingenuous look.’What’s an irrevocable letter o’ credit? What’s all the fuss about, any’ow?’ She pointed to the letter on the table. ‘That don’t look like no paper what’s worth dying for!’

  ‘It’s money promised what can’t be unpromised once it’s been presented from one bank t’other,’ Ikey said, trying to stay vague. ‘You’re perfectly right, my dear, they’ll be after trying to stop me gettin’ to a bank in London.’ Ikey shrugged. ‘It’s only natural ain’t it? You did good not to be followed, my dear. I ‘ave made plans, we will make good our escape.’

  Marybelle smiled, shrugged her shoulders and looked expectantly at Ikey. ‘Ya said I done good, we wasn’t followed, so where’s me fortune what ya promised?’

  Ikey dry-soaped his hands, his shoulders hunched. ‘You’ve done special good you ‘ave, my dear, you’ve done it perfect and exact and splendid. I couldn’t ‘ave asked for no more, ‘cept one small thing?’

  ‘What?’ Marybelle asked suspiciously, holding another large piece of chicken poised in front of her greasy mouth.

  Ikey reached across the small table, picked up the copper cylinder and unscrewed the smoothly fitting top. He carefully rolled the letter of credit into a tight cylinder itself, which he then neatly slipped into the copper container and screwed the top back on.

  ‘Will you take this letter o’ credit back with you to London tonight, my dear?’

  Ikey placed the cylinder in front of Marybelle, then he announced he was giving her the rights to future instalments of paper from Thomas Tooth and George Betteridge. ‘Until I returns to London to live, my dear, though I daresay that be never.’

  ‘This bill paper to come, is it still kosher? I knows yer doin’ a runner, Ikey. The law ain’t on to it is they?’

  Ikey cleared his thoat and answered truthfully. ‘They is and they isn’t, I expects. O’ course now, at this very moment, I suppose the Bank o’ England will be goin’ over the mill at Laverstoke with a fine-toothed comb, though I’ll vouch if them two, Tooth and Betteridge, ‘ave the good sense to lie low for a while, they’ll find nothin’. Give it two months, maybe three or even four to be completely on the safe side, and the scam can be brought back intact. Clean as a whistle, free as a bird, kosher as the Beth Din! The bill paper be worth a king’s ransom, keep you in nosh for the rest of your life!’

  ‘Only if you knows ‘ow to get rid of it, Ikey. I ain’t got no contacts what wants bill paper.’

  Ikey raised his eyebrows in surprise, ‘Why, my dear, you sells it to them two you met in the bank today!’

  ‘What? Do business wif that filth?’

  Ikey shrugged. ‘They’s villains, but the best, my dear. We’re all villains, given ‘arf a chance, everyone in the whole world is villains. But in me experience there be two kinds o’ villain, them what’s got a bit o’ class and them what ain’t.’ Ikey’s dark eyes shone. ‘That letter Maggie wrote today, that be most excellent. That be topnotch thinkin’, nacherly nasty nogginin’, my dear!’ Ikey spread his hands wide. ‘That’s a rare combination what you doesn’t find too often in the business o’ villainy, brains and the stomach to act.’ He paused, scratching the tip of his nose. ‘You take my word for it, they be your natural customers, my dear! All you does is wait a year, then come down here with the bill paper what you ‘as accumulated, startin’ again in four months.’ Ikey leaned back. ‘You’ll make thousands, my dear, thousands and thousands. Your table will be the envy o’ dukes and duchesses. The King himself, I dare say, will come to ‘ear o’ your fine banquets.’

  Marybelle picked up the cylinder and waved it at Ikey. ‘And what if some villain they send catches me wif this on me way to London?’ She drew the cylinder across her throat. ‘That’s what ‘appens.’

  ‘They won’t find it will they?’ Ikey said puckering his lips. He pointed to the cylinder. ‘It be made to be put in a place what a man ‘asn’t got and a lady ‘as. A place where your average villain ain’t likely to go pokin’ about without your express permission, if you knows what I mean, my dear?’

  Marybelle’s pretty blue eyes grew large and then shone with delighted surprise. She gave a little squeal, running her fat, greasy fingers along the cylinder’s smooth surface.

  ‘Jesus, Ikey! You bleedin’ thinks o’ everyfink.’ In between her laughter she managed to gasp. ‘Methinks it will be a tight fit. . .ha-ha-ha-ha! But wif all the bumpin’ o’ the coach to London. . .ha-ha-ha-hee-hee!. . .I daresay it will bring a lady o’ me proportions, oh, goodness lummy, oh, oh. . .a good deal o’ pleasure on the. . .ha-ha-hee-hee!. . .journey ‘ome!’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ikey returned to London three days after he had left Marybelle Firkin at the inn with a pork pie stuck in her gob and his precious cylinder safely tucked away elsewhere on her large person. Waiting in the back room of a chop house in Houndsditch until well after dark when a light snow storm, churned with frequent wind flurries, began to fall and which he judged would further conceal his passage, Ikey slipped into the rookery of St Giles and soon thereafter let himself into the seemingl
y abandoned building which housed the Methodist Academy of Light Fingers.

  Creeping up the rickety staircase, he appeared suddenly and to the utmost surprise of half a dozen boys who were playing a game of cribbage by the light of a solitary candle. Huddled beside the hearth directly behind them were as many boys again wrapped in rags and old blankets against the bitter cold.

  ‘Now ‘ow many times ‘as I told you, keep a sharp eye!’ Ikey admonished. ‘The lad what’s supposed to be watchin’ out is asleep on the landin’, lushed out and smellin’ o’ gin!’ Ikey sucked at his teeth and wagged a mittened finger at the urchins seated crosslegged around a box. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! Cribbage in this kind o’ light ain’t no good for the senses. You’ll lose your touch, the light of a candle dulls the mind and makes it too easy to palm a card or deal a crooked ‘and. Brightness be what’s called for, where everything can be seen, clear as daylight, open and negotiable as a whore’s cunny.’

  The boys laughed loudly at this last remark but Ikey held up his hand for silence. ‘A cardsharp to be warranted any good must make ‘is play in the best o’ conditions. We’ll ‘ave no second-rate broadsman spreadin’ the flats in darkness in my school o’ learnin’! A trade ain’t worth ‘avin’ if you’re not the best there is at it.’

  His young pupils crowded about him. ‘There’s a people what’s lookin’ for ya, Ikey, is ya in lavender then?’ a young tooler named Sweetface Mulligan enquired.

  ‘Perhaps I is and perhaps I ain’t, it all depends on who is lookin’ and whether it be opportunity knockin’ or disadvantage breakin’ down the door.’

  ‘It’s Bow Street! Some say it be City police! All about Petticoat Lane they is! Anyone seen ya, they asks! Rewards is offered! Never seen so much law about, ‘as we lads? Wotcha do, Ikey? Murder was it? There’s talk o’ forgery! Millions o’ pounds! There be a poster o’ yer gob pasted everywhere! We’s proud to know ya, Ikey!’ All this and more they chorused crowding around Ikey, the smaller ones hopping up and down and jumping on the backs of the larger boys to get a closer look in the semi-darkened room.

  ‘And Mistress Hannah!’ a boy they called Onion, whose birth name was Pickles, shouted. ‘She been lookin’ for ya an’ all!’

  Ikey shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s true, my dears, the constabulary ‘as a sharp eye peeled for me.’ He looked around slowly, spread his hands and his face took on a look of regret. ‘O’ course I apologises for scarperin’ without informin’ you, gentlemen. A matter of urgent expediency, you understand? No offence intended and I ‘opes none is taken. No time to pay me respects or bid you all adieu.’

  They nodded, happy at the compliment he’d paid their mutual fraternity. Ikey rolled his eyes and seemed to look at each of them in turn. ‘Now we ‘asn’t seen me, ‘as we, lads? I means, no seein’ to the degree o’ not seein’ nothin’ at all!’

  Ikey’s fingers flicked heavenwards as though to expel the memory of having seen him completely from their minds. He stopped and lifted the candle from the box, the hot glass warming his mittened fingers. Holding the lighted jar before him, he inspected each boy’s dirty face, watching as they solemnly nodded acquiescence. ‘We doesn’t want no pigs sniffin’ round askin’ awkward questions now does we, my dears?’

  It was not Ikey’s intention to stay long at the Academy of Light Fingers, although he did not indicate this to the urchins around him. While they were well trained in all matters of villainy and each had a healthy disregard for the constabulary, he knew he could ill afford to trust them. They were ‘street Arabs’ seldom allowed the importance of being noticed and any one of them with three or four noggins of gin to loosen his tongue would not be able to resist the urge to boast of his knowledge of Ikey’s return. Ikey needed them now for only one purpose, to find Bob Marley as quickly as possible.

  Under normal circumstances there were half a hundred places in the surrounding rookeries where Ikey might indefinitely conceal his presence, though he was not foolish enough to suppose that these would now apply. As a Jew in trouble with the law he was fair prey for all but his own kind. Even though his standing as the Prince of Fences was considerable, they would come snarling in for the kill, the promise of a large reward sufficient to overcome their normal tendency to remain stum. Ikey was aware the criminal code of honour was a fragile thing and would always buckle with the opportunity for a quick profit or a favour returned. He knew this as a certainty, for he was himself no different.

  With the promise of a good tightener washed down with a pint of best beer at the nearby chophouse, and with the further inducement of a shilling for all and a gold sovereign for the boy who turned out to be the fortunate finder, Ikey sent his young associates off into the winter streets. He directed them to the Haymarket at the popular West End to find and bring Bob Marley back to him.

  ‘When you finds ‘im, ask for ‘is ear, very quiet mind, say that Ikey Solomon requests the pleasure of ‘is company.’

  It was not an hour later when Ikey, drowsing at the hearth, was awakened in a great start by a small urchin named Sparrer Fart, a tiny lad of ten with an open angelic face which, together with his size, gave him the appearance of being much younger. He showed all the makings of becoming an expert tooler, with fingers light and sticky as cobwebs and the fearless disposition of the young.

  ‘I brung ‘im, Ikey. I found Mr Marley. Can I ‘ave the sov what’s mine?’ Sparrer Fart stuck out his dirty hand and grinned. ‘Much obliged, I’m sure!’

  ‘Where?’ Ikey cried, shocked at the sudden awakening and alarmed that he hadn’t heard the boy ascend the stairs, though the howl of the winter wind and the natural creaking and groaning of the ancient building would have masked Sparrer’s light footfall.

  ‘ ’E won’t come up them stairs.’ Sparrer grinned. ‘Too dane-gis, ‘e reckons.’

  Ikey, by now fully recovered of his senses, removed a gold sovereign from the interior of his coat and held it out to the youngster, pulling it out of the reach as the urchin snatched at it. Ikey shook his head. ‘Tut, tut! First principle o’ business, Master Sparrer Fart! Seein’ is believin’, always inspect the merchandise before you pays fer it, my dear.’ Bending to retrieve the candle, he rose from where he was seated on the cribbage box and proceeded carefully down the stairs.

  Bob Marley was waiting in the darkness of the tiny downstairs hallway which was now clearly lit by the light of Ikey’s candle. He wore a heavy dark coat which fell almost to his ankles with a pair of stout boots protruding from trousers of rough corduroy. A tartan scarf was wrapped about his face so that only his eyes showed between the scarf and the rim of his battered top hat. He removed the scarf at Ikey’s approach and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat.

  This form of attire was unusual for Marley, who liked to be seen about the town as a proper swell, dressed in the latest fashion. Ikey’s keen eye noted this disparity in his dress and concluded that Marley had not been found by Sparrer Fart in the Haymarket, where a man of his reputation would not venture dressed in so poor a manner.

  Ikey turned to look sternly at Sparrer Fart. ‘We went off to spend our shillin’ on a tightener and a noggin o’ gin then, did we? We went local and not to the Hay-market did we? We didn’t do no lookin’ at all!’ Ikey glanced at Bob Marley and winked. ‘Methinks, we chanced upon Mr Marley ‘ere by sheer luck and great good fortune and because we ‘as a greedy guts!’

  The boy shuffled, looking down at his feet. ‘I found ‘im di’nt I? I done good!’ He moved up to Ikey and began to clutch imploringly at his coat. ‘It were a fair find an’ all!’ he whimpered into the folds of Ikey’s greasy coat.

  Ikey clucked, wrapping his free arm around the boy’s shoulder. ‘We all needs a bit o’ luck, my dear. Gawd knows yours truly could use a speck o’ good fortune right now.’ He pushed the young lad gently away and his hand went into his coat and a moment later appeared with half a sovereign held between forefinger and thumb. ‘I tell you what I’ll do, we’ll keep ‘arf a sov back on account of ‘ow
you disobeyed instructions and I’ll give you ‘arf a sov for deliverin’ the goods. Punishment and reward both at the same time, now what could be fairer than that, my dear?’

  The small boy looked doubtful. ‘It ain’t fair, I done what ya asked! Ya said a sov for ‘im what found ‘im!’ He moved close to Ikey plucking at his coat. ‘It ain’t fair, I done what ya asked, I found ‘im.’

  This time Ikey pushed him away roughly, but the boy grabbed onto the coat and Ikey smacked him across the ear. ‘Disobedience! Discipline! ‘Arf a sov and you’re lucky to be keepin’ it, boy!’

  Marley’s hand shot out and snatched the coin from Ikey’s fingers. ‘ ’Arf a mo, Ikey, one sov was promised the lad, one sov must be given!’

  ‘Lessons! Boys must learn lessons! Obedience, discipline,’ Ikey whinged.

  Marley laughed. ‘Promises! Boys must ‘ave promises kept.’ He tossed the half sovereign into the air and caught it. ‘This’ll pay for the inconvenience o’ crossing the lane,’ he said, pocketing the coin. ‘Ya owe the brat a sov, so pay up, Ikey Solomon!’

  Ikey’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You was in the Hare and Hounds?’ he exclaimed, naming the flash-house across the lane.

  Marley nodded. ‘Ya was due back ‘bout now, ya couldn’t ‘ave gone to too many places what wouldn’t ‘ave shopped ya, this were one,’ he explained simply, giving Ikey a slow smile. ‘How may I be o’ service to ya?’

  Ikey turned to Sparrer Fart and handed him a sovereign. ‘ ’Ang about and you might learn something, me boy! See what we just seen demonstrated?’ He turned and gave Bob Marley an oily smile, returned his gaze to the small boy and stooping low he pushed the candle close to his dirty little face. ‘See? Discipline!’ He tapped the side of his forehead with his forefinger. ‘Use o’ the noggin, thinkin’! That’s trainin’, my dear, that’s discipline, that be what makes a great tooler into a swell mobsman, an aristocrat o’ the art o’ pickin’ pockets!’ Ikey straightened up, satisfied that he’d recovered his dignity by making his original point and at the same time had sufficiently softened Bob Marley with his flattery. Patting Sparrer Fart on the head, he said, ‘You ‘as just ‘ad the benefit o’ the wisdom o’ Solomon, my dear!’