London Belongs to Me

by Norman Collins

  The clock had just struck again – one of its even funnier double booms, this time – when Uncle Henry suddenly returned to the conversation.

  ‘No one but ourselves to blame,’ he said. ‘When the Japs went into Manchuria did we raise a finger to stop them?’

  ‘Not a finger,’ Mr Josser agreed placidly.

  He was in no mood to be drawn into an argument this afternoon, and he was careful to keep on the same side as Uncle Henry.

  ‘Or Abyssinia? Did we stop the Eyetalians?’

  Mr Josser shook his head.

  ‘And what’s the outcome of it all going to be?’

  Mr Josser paused. He was sure that he had the answer somewhere, because he’d heard it so many times from Uncle Henry before.

  ‘I know. Chaos,’ he said. ‘World chaos.’

  Uncle Henry turned and fixed his sound eye on Mr Josser. The other caught Cynthia for a moment and she giggled. This simple fact stimulated Uncle Henry. In his philosophy, levity was as good as opposition.

  ‘You may laugh,’ he said. ‘But are you familiar with what is happening in China at the moment? Ten thousand dead in one air raid. That’s the scale of things. There’s your brave new world for you. Ten thousand killed and forty thousand wounded. Planes coming over night and day for twenty‐four hours. That’s the state we’ve brought things to.’

  ‘How?’ Ted asked.

  It was the first thing that he had said for nearly two hours and Cynthia was surprised at him: it seemed to her simply fatal to encourage Uncle Henry when he was in one of his silly moods.

  But there was one person in the room who didn’t mind how much he was encouraged – Connie. She was enjoying everything. The warmth, the close intimate atmosphere of a lot of human bodies all together in one room, the brightness of the light, the noise of voices, the good tea she was having. And she was picking at the marzipan‐icing on her plate like a bird.

  Also, she wasn’t listening to a word that anyone was saying. She was carrying on a private and largely congratulatory conversation with herself.

  ‘You’re in clover, Connie, old girl,’ she was saying. ‘You’re where you meant to be.’

  She allowed her eyes to wander round the room and saw Cynthia happily clasping Baby to her and allowing herself to be hit repeatedly and cooingly in the face.

  ‘You got caught, you poor thing,’ she reflected. ‘With hair like that you ought to be enjoying yourself, same as I did at your age, not sprawling about the floor to amuse a blooming baby. You haven’t got any self‐respect: that’s your trouble.’

  She finished the marzipan, and sat there rattling her cup on the saucer until Mrs Josser silently filled it for her. Then she took a long deep drink folding her lip round the edge of the cup.

  ‘And as for you,’ – she was looking in Doris’s direction now – ‘if you were my daughter, I’d take your nose out of that book and pull it. It’s not natural, seeing a girl reading.’

  But there was a distraction. A little piece of the marzipan had gone down inside her blouse somewhere and she was trying to get at it.

  4

  They’d all gone now. Connie, a good Christmas tea inside her, had left for her night club. Ted and Cynthia had gone off for their bus, with Baby, placid and inert at last, sleeping in Ted’s arms; even Uncle Henry had finally departed, a rather seedy looking Job, with his coat collar turned up and his head buzzing with Eyetalians and outrages in China and wars that would scorch the heritage of man. Mr Josser heaved a sigh when he had gone. He supposed that he was fond of his brother‐in‐law. But he was, it had to be admitted, really more of a Lenten figure than a Father Christmas.

  After the party, it was pleasant for Mr and Mrs Josser to be alone together for a few minutes. The remains of the evening were still spread out all round them. They hadn’t attempted to clear up yet and the empty port glasses stood about in a litter of paper caps, mottoes and the remains of a large paper bell that Baby had discovered. The Jossers were just having a cup of tea before they got down to things.

  They didn’t say very much to each other. Instead, they just sat there, sipping their tea and staring disinterestedly into the embers that were dying in front of them. Once Mr Josser took out his pipe, but when Mrs Josser said, ‘Oh Fred, you’ve smoked enough for tonight,’ he put it away again without seeming to notice.

  Up on the mantelpiece the clock, worn out at last by its own enthusiasm, had stopped altogether. Mr Josser got up and went over to it. He seemed apprehensive of touching the works in anyway at all, and contented himself with running his thumb nail down a vein in the marble.

  ‘I should take it along to the watchmakers on Monday,’ Mrs Josser recommended. ‘They’ll be able to fix it up for you.’

  Mr Josser stood there without moving.

  ‘It’s a nice clock,’ he said slowly.

  Mrs Josser felt suddenly ashamed that they had made so much fun of it.

  ‘It’s a beautiful clock,’ she agreed with him.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting anything, you know,’ he went on.

  Mrs Josser pursed her lips, but didn’t say anything. There was another long silence and Mr Josser came back and sat down again.

  He was apparently deep in thought about something.

  ‘Seems funny to think that I shan’t be going back there any more,’ he said at last. ‘You’d better remind me on Monday just in case.’

  ‘You won’t need any reminding,’ she told him. ‘You’ve done your bit.’

  Mr Josser did not reply immediately. He was busy taking off his collar and tie. When he had undone them he laid them carefully on the chair beside him and twisted his neck from side to side to ease it. The new freedom seemed to bring a return of energy.

  ‘First thing in the morning I’ll start writing round,’ he said.

  Mrs Josser shook her head.

  ‘You know it’s no use,’ she answered. ‘It isn’t fair on Doris.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ he persisted. ‘Plenty of other girls come in every day.’

  ‘And waste all that money on fares?’ Mrs Josser demanded.

  Mr Josser considered the matter.

  ‘Wouldn’t cost any more if we buy a cottage,’ he pointed out. ‘There won’t be any rent then.’

  There was a pause. Mrs Josser had just poured herself out another cup of tea – it was practically a twenty‐four hour service in this household – and went on stirring it long after the sugar had dissolved.

  ‘I’m not so sure that I want to live in the country myself,’ she said. ‘And I’m quite certain Doris doesn’t.’

  Mr Josser put his cup down.

  ‘But… but it’s what we’ve always said we’d do,’ he told her. ‘It’s what we saved up for.’

  ‘I know it is,’ she answered. ‘And it was all right while we were only talking about it. Now it might really happen I don’t know I’m so keen.’

  ‘Well there’s no harm in writing,’ he said, ‘perhaps… perhaps they haven’t got anything.’

  To change the subject a little – only a little – and put a more cheerful aspect on the evening, Mr Josser started talking about the cheque. He still had it in the envelope in which Mr Battlebury had handed it to him.

  ‘That’s another thing I’ve got to do in the morning,’ he said. ‘Pay in that cheque. Come in very handy, twenty‐five pounds if we do move.’

  ‘If we do,’ Mrs Josser said grimly.

  But Mr Josser wasn’t to be depressed.

  ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw how much it was,’ he said. ‘From Mr Battlebury personally, too. Not from the firm at all.’

  ‘He could afford it,’ Mrs Josser answered. ‘It didn’t hurt him.’

  The tone of her voice shocked Mr Josser. It seemed ungrateful somehow, so disloyal.

  ‘Generous I call it,’ he said. ‘That’s what I call it. Generous.’

  ‘Well I don’t,’ said Mrs Josser. There was something surprisingly heated in her voice as she sai
d it, and she was sitting bolt upright in her chair while she spoke. ‘After the way you’ve slaved for them.’

  ‘But what about the pension?’ he was saying. ‘Two quid a week just for doing nothing.’

  Mrs Josser didn’t hear him, however. For some reason, she was crying. Not loudly and emphatically like Connie. Just silently and privately crying.

  Mr Josser was astonished. He just couldn’t make sense of it all. Apparently, Mrs Josser was crying because Mr Battlebury had given him twenty‐five pounds as well as a pension. Her whole body was trembling. She seemed to be shivering as well as crying.

  Mr Josser got up and went through to the bedroom next door. He brought the shawl back with him. Mrs Josser had her handkerchief up to her eyes and didn’t notice as he spread the thing out and refolded it cornerwise. The first thing that she knew was that something icy cold was being wrapped round her and tucked in uncomfortably underneath the arms.

  ‘There,’ said Mr Josser triumphantly. ‘Now you’ll feel better.’

  Mrs Josser reached out her hand to him. She was sorry now about the little outburst. For nearly thirty years she had been meaning to utter her feelings about Battlebury’s and, having uttered them, she felt better.

  But she wasn’t going to admit it.

  ‘Oh Fred, you know, they won’t change it if it gets all creased,’ was all she said.

  Chapter IV

  1

  Percy Boon had been depressed all day. And this was strange because there was no reason for it. He’d been paid the first five pounds commission on the little job he’d done on Christmas Day – balance on completion of sale – and he was looking round for another little job just like the last one.

  ‘Free‐lance,’ he said, because he rather liked the word. ‘Free‐lance, that’s me.’

  There was a fun fair just opposite the garage and he wandered over to it for ten minutes. This was one of the nights when he didn’t get off till midnight and he felt he needed a little relaxation just to keep going. But somehow delight was absent. Everything was flat, and the fun fair didn’t seem funny. He went aimlessly from machine to machine in search of happiness, and couldn’t find it. Even the pin‐tables had lost their magic. The little steel balls careered madly about, striking first one kind of obstacle and then another, lighting things up on their zigzags, flashing up the score in thousands and tens of thousands – and he was just too bored to count. Then he tried the Electric Crane which looked as though it could scoop up watches and fountain pens and cigarette cases as often as you cared to put a penny into it. He’d wasted ninepence and gone back for more change before he decided that happiness didn’t lurk in the Electric Crane either. So, finally, still searching as hard as ever for something to make him forget himself – he sauntered over to the Peep‐Shows. He knew them all by heart of course. They were an old selection, and the Peep‐Show in England is an art form that hasn’t renewed itself with the times. But he put his pennies in dutifully and saw the old faded sets of postcards flicker past again – the Honeymoon, Milady’s Toilet, What the Butler Saw, The Artist’s Model and Greek Statues. They didn’t, however, rouse him to‐night. They simply left him depressed and dejected. He felt he needed something stronger.

  To give himself a test of skill and to get some kick out of having come over to the place at all, he played a solitary round of Radio Billiards. But the machine wasn’t working properly. One of the magnets was stronger than the other and kept pulling the balls sideways. After the third miss he gave it up and walked over to the change desk to have another look at the girl inside.

  She was new there. The previous girl had been rather a fat girl with red hair. This one was quite slim. And blonde. Not real blonde – Percy could tell that straight away – but blonde nevertheless. The bright, shining sort. She wasn’t good‐looking, judged by the top standards. But she was all right. And she looked as if she might be adaptable. He went over and leant against the desk.

  ‘Hallo beautiful,’ he said. ‘You new here?’

  The girl looked at him for a moment before answering.

  ‘Fresh, aren’t you?’ she answered.

  Percy didn’t mind this reply. It was all part of the pattern. And in any case he didn’t like girls who gave themselves away in the first five minutes.

  ‘I noticed you as soon as I came in,’ he said.

  ‘I dreamed about you last night,’ the girl told him.

  He grinned politely.

  ‘Ever have any time off?’ he asked.

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘No, I go straight on. All day and all night.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Percy asked.

  ‘Oh, call me Mrs Simpson,’ she replied.

  ‘Like to come out some time?’

  ‘Yes, but not with you.’

  ‘Fond of dancing?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Like to go somewhere on Saturday?’

  The Blonde handed a shilling’s worth of change to another bored, lonely youth like Percy, and then went on staring vacantly into space.

  ‘What about the Palais?’

  ‘What about what?’

  ‘Pick you up about nine.’

  ‘Pick yourself up if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Take you there by car if you like.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d rather fly.’

  Percy smiled and lit a cigarette. He offered the girl one. She took it. ‘That a date then?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh forget it,’ the girl answered. ‘You make me tired.’

  She handed out two more piles of coppers and scratched her head absent‐mindedly with a knitting needle. In her lap lay a pink jumper that she was finishing.

  Percy straightened himself up and began to move off. He certainly didn’t intend to stop there any longer and make himself cheap.

  ‘See you later,’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t hurry,’ the girl called after him.

  There were two customers waiting at the garage when Percy got back and he had to tell one of them where he got off. He was a Jew who seemed to expect service at an all‐night garage whenever he chose to drop in for it.

  But it was quiet enough now. There was a mechanic working somewhere in the rear and there was a boy in front to look after the pumps. Percy himself was odd man out. There was nothing for him to do, and he stood in the steel and glass box that was the office, a cigarette between his lips, staring out along the tramway track. His head was sunk forward a little and there was a dreamy far‐away look in his eyes. He had moods like this sometimes.

  ‘If I had a thousand a year, on the level,’ he was thinking, ‘I’d be O.K. I’d know where I stood. I’d know what to do with it. I’d be O.K. I’d get a house out Purley way with a garage. I’d have a radiogram and a cocktail cabinet. I’d stop mucking about with blondes and marry some girl or other. I’d have a home cinema. I’d spend every week‐end at Brighton. I’d learn French the easy way by correspondence. I’d buy a ukelele. Then I’d be O.K. in the evenings. If I wasn’t working in a garage I’d have a manicure every week from a different girl. I’d wear one of the new low‐curved bowlers. I’d carry a gold cigarette case. I’d make my wife put on evening dress every evening. I’d have a Riley’s home billiard table and have friends in. I’d be O.K.’

  As he was thinking, his hands were plunged deep into his trousers pockets and the fingers of his right hand were fiddling with something. It was a knuckleduster. And rather a good one, too. It was called the Hedgehog. Instead of the outer band’s being smooth, there was a kind of blunt spike in between the knuckle joints, so that anyone getting hit with it would have to take quite a lot of punishment. He’d never actually used the knuckleduster. He didn’t in fact even know anyone who had ever used a knuckleduster. But it was nice to have one all the same. Especially a good one like that, with a guard for the thumb and everything.

  And he knew other people who carried knuckledusters; ordinary plain ones. Most of the boys who hung around S
mokey’s Cafe in the evenings carried them; and he’d had one or two of the real gang‐fighters pointed out to him. But you couldn’t be sure. There was always a lot of loose talk and boasting at a place like Smokey’s. And nothing much ever seemed to happen there.

  The smooth steel of the knuckleduster seemed to seep up into his brain as he fondled it. He began to think about other of his toys as well. The knuckleduster wasn’t the only thing he’d got. He’d got a cosh too. It wasn’t a real cosh. But it was good enough. It’d lay a man out all right. He’d say it would. And he grinned as he remembered how he’d got it. It was a present from the Underground. He’d pinched it off the Morden tube late one night when he was the only passenger in the compartment. And it had been difficult because, of course, he’d had to lay off at stations. It was just one of the solid rubber knobs on a long springy stalk for standing passengers to hold on to. All the fellows were carrying one.

  There were other kinds of weapons of self‐defence, too, that some of the fellows carried. But he hadn’t got any of them. Not in his line, really. Too dangerous. There was an Italian from Clerkenwell who’d come south of the river on a job. Razoritti, people called him. He always carried a razor in his trouser pocket.

  At the thought Percy idly went through slashing motions in the air.

  ‘If I had a thousand a year, I’d be O.K.,’ he said again dreamily. ‘I’d learn tap‐dancing.’

  But what was the use? He hadn’t got a thousand. And remembering that he hadn’t, he became depressed again.

  2

  It must have been something in the air because Doris was depressed, too. Depressed and disappointed. She had allowed herself to get very excited about the cottage – not because she particularly wanted to live in a cottage – but because she had finally decided she didn’t want to go on living in Dulcimer Street. And then Mrs Josser had put her foot down. She had refused, obstinately and absolutely, to have anything to do with cottages. Dulcimer Street, she said, was where she had made her home and she didn’t see why she should be turned out of it…

  Doris looked at her watch. It was eight‐thirty. To be really early it should have been eight‐twenty‐five or even eight‐twenty. It was going to be a rush. Not that it mattered. She felt in an angry, rushing sort of mood, and being late was just part of it. The other people in the tram looked sullen and rather sleepy: they might have been a race of liverish ghosts returning to their morning graveyards. It was Monday morning. No mistaking it.