London Belongs to Me

by Norman Collins

  The young gentlemen from the Counting House perched themselves along the edge of the drawing‐tables. And Mr Veritter, the Secretary of the Company, a pale white‐haired man with the thin anxious face of a whippet, sat himself down under the mistletoe in the place that had been reserved for Miss Unsett. There was further giggling when he did so – a half‐suppressed, delighted chuckle, that ran right through the room – and Mr Veritter’s expression of anxiety increased. He had a vague unpleasant feeling that the laughter was somehow directed at him, though he couldn’t imagine why, and his eyebrows contracted into a fixed nervous frown. He looked as though at any moment he might break out into a shrill frightened yapping.

  Then Mr Battlebury arrived. Even without his overcoat he was still a big man. He had a broad fleshy face, with heavy dewlaps and a long protruding nose that started too high up his forehead. What remained of his hair was crisp and curly and he wore it cut short except for a little bunch of the stuff that sprang out over each ear. The dome of his head was entirely bald – prematurely bald that is – for Mr Battlebury was only forty‐three. Altogether his skull had a smooth glossy appearance as though it were regularly massaged, or even polished. Not that it seemed in the least out of place. Everything about Mr Battlebury was rather highly polished.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he began, rubbing his hands together. ‘Are we all ready?’

  He surveyed the room with a gratifyingly pleased beam through his horn‐rimmed spectacles and then stopped himself abruptly.

  ‘But where’s Josser?’ he asked.

  There was just a trace of irritation in his voice as he put the question. Mr Battlebury, it was apparent, did not like to be kept waiting even on purely social occasions.

  He was not kept waiting for long, however. The door from the Counting House reopened and four large ledgers with a pair of striped trousers underneath them came into sight. The ledgers hesitated for a moment and then steered a swaying and erratic course toward the big steel safe on the opposite side of the room.

  A voice from behind the ledgers said: ‘Just coming, sir.’ Everybody gave a little titter. Then, as the walking ledgers passed the centre of the room, the owner of the voice came into sight. He was a small, elderly man with a wisp of white hair that stood straight up like egrets’ feathers. Under his black business coat, a blue knitted cardigan showed like an azure body‐band along the back and seemed to divide him into two portions. When he finally reached the safe he tilted forward, swung the steel doors together, locked them and took the bunch of keys over to Mr Veritter. There was something oddly mechanical about the whole operation. It was like that of an actor who has rehearsed a small part so thoroughly that he has forgotten what it is all about. It was obvious that Mr Josser could have carried it all through blindfolded.

  As soon as he had handed over the keys he began dusting his hands one against the other and addressed himself again to Mr Battlebury.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,’ he said.

  Two of the young ladies exchanged glances. They were Miss Heyland who hammered away for nearly eight hours a day at the invoicing machine and Miss Woodman who was Mr Veritter’s secretary.

  ‘Isn’t that just like old Josser?’ Miss Heyland observed. ‘Still working.’

  ‘He is rather a pet,’ Miss Woodman admitted.

  ‘Won’t he miss it – after all this time,’ Miss Heyland remarked sentimentally.

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ replied Miss Woodman. ‘Would you?’ Meanwhile, Mr Battlebury was smiling again, now that he discovered that he wasn’t to be kept waiting after all.

  ‘Ah Josser,’ he said. ‘Nothing like clearing up, is there?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Mr Josser replied dutifully.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Battlebury. ‘We mustn’t take up too much time because everybody wants to be off home. I’m sure that I do, and I’m sure Mr Josser does. But I felt – we all felt – that we couldn’t let our old friend go without making some little presentation to him. That’s why we’re all here now.’

  Mr Battlebury paused and began rubbing his hands together again as though he were looking forward to Mr Josser’s departure and saw no point in concealing it.

  ‘How long is it you’ve been with us, Mr Josser?’ he asked in the easy, deceptive manner of a counsel trying to draw out an uncommunicative witness.

  ‘Forty‐two years, sir,’ Mr Josser answered.

  The answer came pat because those forty‐two years had been in his mind a great deal lately. Ever since his last illness Mr Josser had found himself steadily re‐living them. It was as though inside his brain someone were turning over the pages of an old photographic album with smudgy pictures of himself on every page.

  But Mr Battlebury had cheerfully taken up the thread of his address again.

  ‘Forty‐two,’ he remarked heartily. ‘Just about my age. Might almost be twins, Mr Josser?’

  He was smiling so broadly by now that Mr Josser could see that he was meant to smile as well. He did so obediently even though he didn’t feel in the least like smiling.

  ‘So now our old friend is going to have the rest he deserves,’ Mr Battlebury rattled on. ‘No more running for the early tram, eh Mr Josser? No more waiting about in the rain for the same old tram to take you home again. I’m bound to say I almost envy you.’ Here Mr Battlebury shook his head as though the greater part of his life was spent in the rain waiting about for trams. ‘But the rest of us,’ he went on, ‘have got to put in a few more years before we can retire – that’s so, isn’t it Miss Sweeting.’

  Miss Sweeting was eighteen and had just joined Battlebury’s straight from a Secretarial College. It seemed that the College had taught her everything about Pitman’s Shorthand and touch typewriting, but nothing at all about large hearty men like Mr Battlebury. She was a pretty fair‐haired girl and she blushed.

  ‘Definitely,’ she said, and tried to look older than she was.

  ‘And now the time has come to make our little presentation to Mr Josser,’ Mr Battlebury continued.

  He paused and Mr Josser shifted in his chair in embarrassment.

  ‘Thank you sir,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘No, no,’ Mr Battlebury caught him up. ‘You don’t have to thank me. They only asked me to speak because I’ve known you longest.’

  Mr Battlebury turned abruptly towards the man on his right.

  ‘Got it there, Veritter?’ he demanded.

  ‘Here it is, sir,’ Mr Veritter answered, rising hurriedly.

  He went over to a table at the back of the room, and picked up the big marble clock tenderly, as though it were a large stony baby. Then he placed it openly on the drawing cabinet beside Mr Battlebury and stood back. Up to that moment he had been trying to keep the whole thing out of sight so that he could produce it as a surprise even though Mr Josser had been asked what he wanted and nearly everyone else had helped to choose it.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Battlebury in a rising crescendo of heartiness, ‘this is the very handsome time‐piece for which your friends have subscribed. And every time you look at it you can just sit back and remember that the rest of your time’s your own.’

  ‘The rest of my time’s my own,’ Mr Josser found himself repeating silently.

  He had got up and come forward. Now that he was standing up beside the majestic form of Mr Battlebury everyone could see how small he was. How small and how shabby. Viewed from the front the effect of the blue woollen cardigan that Mrs Josser had knitted him was even more striking. It buttoned up almost to the throat and made Mr Josser look as though he’d dressed hurriedly and not put on anything underneath. The cuffs of the cardigan which were too long anyhow, had been rolled up and hung down outside the sleeves of the black jacket.

  But it was his face at which everyone was looking. Behind the pincenez glasses which lay aslant upon his nose – one of the springs was broken: it had been broken for years, seven or eight years at least, and Mr Josser had never had it mended – large tears were forming. At l
ast, one of them detached itself and slithered down his cheek on to the ragged grey moustache.

  Mr Josser took out his handkerchief and mopped about with it.

  ‘Oh look,’ said Miss Woodman. ‘He’s crying.’

  ‘Sshh!’ Miss Heyland replied sharply. ‘He’ll hear you.’

  But Mr Battlebury had picked up the clock by now. Formally and with a little bow, he gave it to Mr Josser. It looked even bigger in Mr Josser’s arms than it had done in Mr Battlebury’s. Mr Josser sagged right down under the weight of it.

  ‘And now,’ said Mr Battlebury, feeling in his pocket, ‘here is my own little contribution. I told you that I didn’t have anything to do with the clock, that is entirely from the – er – staff.’

  He produced a flat white envelope as he spoke, and Mr Josser mechanically caught hold of it.

  Then Mr Battlebury held out his hand for a cordial last handshake. But Mr Josser could do nothing about it. The clock had just slipped alarmingly and he now had both arms gripped frantically round it. He seemed to be wrestling with himself. The envelope that Mr Battlebury had given him was crushed and crumpled in his right hand. The other hand was clutching the clock.

  And this was a pity: because in all those years of their association this was the first time that Mr Battlebury had ever tried to shake hands with Mr Josser.

  It was very quiet now in the counting‐house and only one of the lights was still on. The girls had left first, going off down the staircase in twos and threes, all chattering like a company of sparrows, and carrying their mysterious Christmas packages. The men had been rather slower about leaving. They had stood about first in groups, filling their pipes, and savouring the pleasant sensation of not actually doing anything. Then with a lot of cheery talk along familiar lines – ‘Have a good time, old man,’ ‘Don’t eat too much,’ and ‘Be good,’ and ‘Keep sober’ – they, too, had gone. Mr Josser was left standing there.

  He had shaken hands with all of them, one after another, until he was sick of shaking hands. He never wanted to see another hand again. And he had said ‘Happy Christmas’ thirty‐two times in all. But it was of neither of these that he was thinking now. He was thinking of the speech that he had just made. Ever since he had known that there was going to be a presentation he had been practising the little address – the few words – that he was going to give them. Among so many young people he suddenly felt like the ancient of the tribe, Old Wise Owl, and there was all manner of deep advice that he wanted to give them.

  And what had actually happened? He had simply stood there facing the lot of them – even mere children like Miss Sweeting – and had remained silent, absolutely silent, for what must have been about thirty seconds. Then, in a thick unnatural voice that didn’t sound in the least like his own, he had said all in one gulp, ‘Thankyouallverymuch,’ and had sat down again. Just that. No more.

  The door behind him opened suddenly and Mr Veritter stood there. He had got nearly as far as Cannon Street before he had discovered that he had left his reading glasses behind him in his desk. He started when he saw Mr Josser.

  ‘Hullo, Josser,’ he said. ‘You still here?’

  Mr Josser dropped his eyes to avoid Mr Veritter’s.

  ‘Yes, I’m still here, sir,’ he answered lamely.

  ‘Have all the others gone?’

  ‘Yes sir, they’ve all gone.’

  Mr Veritter stood regarding him for a moment and then went through into his inner office. His glasses were there exactly where he had left them. Mr Veritter shut up his desk once more and came back again into the Counting House.

  Mr Josser had not moved and Mr Veritter became apprehensive for a moment – but not too apprehensive as he still meant to have a slap at catching the 5.45.

  ‘Feeling all right, aren’t you, Josser?’ he asked. ‘Chest’s not troubling you again?’

  Mr Josser drew himself up with a jerk.

  ‘I’m perfectly well, thank you sir,’ he replied. And, after a long pause, he added, ‘Perfectly well’ as though to settle the matter.

  Mr Veritter took one last glance at him and one glance at his watch.

  ‘Well, good‐bye Josser,’ Mr Veritter said hurriedly. ‘Happy Christmas. Come back and see us sometime.’

  ‘Thank you sir,’ Mr Josser answered. ‘Same to you; sir. I will.’

  Then, when Mr Veritter had left him, he went on standing there as before.

  It was the sound of St Mary‐Under‐Cannon3 striking the half‐hour that roused him. He went over to the hat stand and took down his alpaca office coat. It rolled into quite a small parcel, and he wrapped it up carefully in a copy of the Star that someone had left in the waste paper basket. Then he pulled open his drawer – the inside of the drawer that was the nearest that he had ever come to privacy in Battlebury and Son – and removed the things that belonged to him. There was a packet of pipe cleaners, several empty tobacco tins, a collar stud, the end of a pair of braces and a box of iodised pastilles. He threw the tobacco tins and the brace‐ends into the waste paper basket, and shovelled the rest into his pocket.

  Finally, with a feeling almost like relief, now that the moment had actually come, he put on his raincoat, wound the knitted muffler round his neck – it was blue, like the cardigan: off the same skein in fact – clapped his hat on his head, gathered up the clock that was now back in the wrapping in which the makers had supplied it, took up his umbrella from the corner, turned off the light – with difficulty, because his hands were full – and closed the door behind him.

  Mr Josser and the fullness of life had parted company.

  2

  It was about twenty‐past five when Mr Josser emerged into the icy coldness of Creek Lane and about twenty‐past seven when he came away from it.

  At first he had intended to go straight home. But when he saw the glowing windows of The Bunch of Grapes and heard the sound of voices inside, he realised with a sudden pang that unless he went in there now, he might never go there again. True, the others, like Mr Veritter, had all asked him to come back and look them up. But he knew in his heart that they didn’t mean it. If he came back now he’d simply be an interruption. And by to‐morrow the Grapes, so far as he was concerned, would be just something in the past.

  So he went inside for the last time – edging his way carefully so as not to upset the clock – to have a farewell mild‐and‐bitter. Only it didn’t work out that way. The saloon was crowded with old friends and familiar faces. Everyone had been celebrating a little already, and they seemed eager to include him in their celebration. They might have been waiting for him almost. Even the barmaid was pleased to see him. And, in the end, he had five half‐pints – not because he wanted them – but simply because he got invited in as fifth man in a group of four and had to observe the convention of the thing.

  When he finally managed to break away – Heaven itself, it seemed, could not have been more full of loved and dear ones than that bar – he found the swing doors more troublesome than ever. He was afraid of pushing with the marble corner of the clock for fear of breaking the glass. His umbrella was in the way. And his other parcel, his rolled‐up office coat, was of no use as a pusher: it simply folded back upon itself, like a sponge. In the end, he went out backwards, disappearing into the night with alarming suddenness over the edge of the hearthstoned step.

  He recovered himself on the pavement and began the walk towards New Bridge Street. The doors of the offices were now all closed, and no lights were showing. The black brick precipices, where the firms huddled together by day like cave dwellers were empty, and their piled‐up populations had departed. Julius F. Greenbaum (Stock and Share Brokers), F. Macreagh (Stirling) Oil Fuel Engineers, Wigginson, Wigginson & Cheap, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths had all gone away already, leaving the City to its cats and caretakers.

  Every moment the clock seemed to grow heavier. It had been all right in The Bunch of Grapes. He had been able to rest it on a windowsill alongside a lot of palms in bright
brass pots. But now that he had to bear the whole weight of it himself, it seemed more massive and marble than ever. And the office coat didn’t help. On going out through the swing door, he had caught the string on the knob of the handle and the knot had been loosened. As though encouraged by this fleeting grip, the office coat was now feverishly struggling to undo itself. One despairing arm had succeeded in forcing its way out of the end of the parcel, and it waved imploringly at passers‐by.

  By rights Mr Josser should have had his umbrella up. But that was impossible. Unless he had been given as many hands as a Hindu goddess he couldn’t manage everything. There was nothing for it, but to trudge on, swaying slightly under the uneven weight of his load while the fine snow, or sleet, or whatever it was, came sifting down out of the dark sky and covered him. Under the street lamps the pavements gleamed and glittered.

  When he reached New Bridge Street he crossed the Embankment to get his tram. And, as he stood there waiting for it, he suddenly found himself remembering Mr Battelbury’s words about no more waiting in the rain. He resented them. Why shouldn’t he wait about in the rain for trams if he wanted to? Waiting for trams in the rain suddenly seemed entirely delightful and proper. It was part of the old order of things that he had wanted it to go on for ever.

  He got a place on top, right in front on the curved seat above the driver. It had not been easy getting up. The steep half‐spiral staircase had beaten him at the first two attempts, and only the conductor’s hand in the small of his back had finally got him there. Then the long narrow gangway in the centre had been just as difficult. It seemed to be exclusively fat people who were taking a Kennington tram that evening. They bulged. In their heavy overcoats they were as shapeless as rows of walruses sitting there. But extremely sensitive walruses. The edge of Mr Josser’s marble clock roused them and broad whiskery faces turned menacingly towards him as he passed. When he reached his seat and sank down gratefully, easing the clock carefully on to his knees, he could still hear the distant growlings.