London Belongs to Me

by Norman Collins

  2

  Percy was depressed again.

  He’d shifted the Bentley. It was off his hands by now. But what had he got out of it? Just half what they’d told him. He’d been paid of course for the work he’d actually put in on it – the re‐spraying, the new bumpers, removing the fancy coach lamps, toning down the pretties. But all he’d got for doing the job was just twenty‐five pounds, instead of fifty. It wasn’t good enough. And it hurt. Hurt right down where he was tenderest. Hurt so much in fact that he’d decided to do a bit of lifting on his own account.

  ‘Free lance, that’s me,’ he said to himself over and over again because it was his favourite word by now. ‘I’m just wasting my time playing in with those boys if they won’t play fair by me.’

  Not that he was going to do anything silly. He wasn’t going to rush things. He was going to use his head. Stealing a car was a serious job. It needed brain‐work. And planning.

  Because he was worrying about how to begin he stood there, biting his nails. It was an old habit that he’d retained from childhood. Mrs Boon had always known just how he was feeling from the way he kept bringing his fingers up to his mouth. He was like that now. Leaning up against the petrol pump marked Commercial he gnawed away at the quick – the nails of all garagemen are short enough anyhow – and began straightening things out in his mind.

  For a start it was no use doing things entirely single‐handed. Too risky. If the police were out for stolen cars they’d go straight for any man who was driving solo. A couple of people up in the front seat was safer.

  It looked too social somehow to be involved in crime. And if one of them was your grandmother you’d be able to drive right through a cordon. But supposing your grandmother wouldn’t play, who then? Certainly not the Blonde. The police knew all about blondes. And suspected them. Besides the Blonde might talk. She had never seemed to Percy the intellectual type. And she looked the wrong sort anyhow. Even if she’d been brunette the police would still have suspected her. What he wanted was a nice quiet girl with not too much make‐up on, and not in a fur coat. Fur coats were suspicious too, especially half‐length ones with the tails hanging down. He wanted someone more the quiet kind. The difficulty was that he didn’t know any of that class of girl. They just didn’t interest him, somehow.

  Of course, there was Doris. But he was going to keep Doris right out of all this.

  ‘Your little hands must be kept clean, my darling,’ he began thinking. ‘Let Percy do the rough work. You keep yourself all sweet and lovely for me. I want you to keep your little hands clean.’

  For a moment he peered into the future. He saw himself sitting side by side with Doris on a Knole couch in a good class drawing‐room with a radiogram and big Chinese vase full of tulips and long velvet curtains up on pelmets and a pretty maid bringing in a tray of drinks. When the maid had pranced out of the room again on her high heels, Percy put his arm tighter round Doris and told her his secret.

  ‘You remember all those cars I used to collect with you on Saturday afternoons when we were engaged,’ he was saying. ‘Well, they were all hot. Everyone of them. We’d have done three years both of us if I hadn’t been careful…’

  But that was all wrong: it was just what he wasn’t going to do. It was dreaming. It had always been his bad habit, dreaming. Besides, he’d got it all worked out by now. He was right on to the big idea. At this very moment there was someone driving about in a car that wouldn’t belong to its owner by to‐morrow night. It would belong to Percy. Percy Boon, Esq., Hot Car Specialist. And the way he had planned it there wouldn’t be any danger. Any real danger, that is. Of course, in all professions there is always an element of risk. You can’t get rich and play safe at the same time.

  ‘Cut it clean out and don’t be a fool. You’re playing with fire, Percy,’ Voice No. 2 suddenly said inside him.

  Voice No. 2 always broke in about now. It was a dreary, cautioning sort of voice. Like it might have been his father’s. It warned him against things. Not just hot cars. But blondes as well. And places like Charley’s Bar and Smokey’s. And little things like fifty cigarettes a day, and betting on the dogs. Percy didn’t know where it came from. But it was always there, ready to say something spoiling just when he was beginning to enjoy himself.

  Then Voice No. 1 chipped in. Voice No. 1 was a very different kind of voice. More like some of the voices he’d heard on the films. It was an Edward G. Robinson voice that made you sit up. And the advice it gave was different, too.

  ‘So you’re backing out, are you?’ it asked. ‘You’re content with things as they are? You haven’t any ambition? You want to stay a garage hand?’ Voice No. 1 paused for a moment almost as if taking a deep breath. Then it fairly bawled in his ear. ‘Go on and do it, you lady’s man. Show you’ve got guts. Let ’em know who’s the clever one round here.’

  It was funny having these two voices inside him all the time trying to make him move in different directions at once. No wonder he had headaches. And where did he come in? he wondered. Which of them was really him? Or wasn’t he either of them? Was he just the one that did the listening?

  In any case he couldn’t help hearing. Because the voices were right inside him. And Voice No. 1 was so loud. Right against his ear. And it did something to him, too. It was Voice No. 1 that had urged him on to handle the hot Bentley. It was Voice No. 1 that had told him to go after blondes and reminded him that if he didn’t somebody else would. It was Voice No. 1 that had told him to be a Free Lance and use his head. In its time Voice No. 1 had led Percy into a lot of trouble.

  But now it was helping him. Helping to fix up the details of the first little job on his own account.

  ‘Easy as falling off a log, if you use your head properly,’ it was saying. ‘All it needs is timing. Pick your moment. Don’t force things. And look out for a nice lock‐up somewhere off the beaten track. Don’t go too fancy. Don’t go too high. Choose something that the cops won’t turn round to stare at. Then you’ll be all right. Make it a Morris or an Austin, and Bob’s your uncle.’

  ‘And what about your poor old mum if you slip up somewhere?’ Voice No. 2 said as soon as Voice No. 1 had finished. ‘Have you thought about her?’

  3

  Connie was downstairs seeing Mrs Vizzard. Mrs Vizzard hadn’t asked her to sit down and Connie stood there on the hearth‐rug twining her little yellow fingers in embarrassment.

  ‘I’ve done my best,’ she said. ‘And that’s the most anyone can do.’ She gave a little sniff that turned into something like a sob before it was finished, and held out three half‐crowns in her hand to Mrs Vizzard. ‘All I could raise,’ she added. ‘The widow’s mite.’

  Mrs Vizzard had been prepared for this. She made no attempt to take the money.

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ she said. ‘It’s not your money I want. It’s the room.’ She paused. ‘And I want it by to‐night. You know that.’

  ‘I could pay off the other two weeks bit by bit if you didn’t mind waiting,’ Connie suggested. ‘Sixpence a week’d clear it all up by Christmas. Then we could all start fair and square again, the way I like things.’

  Mrs Vizzard did not waver.

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Connie,’ she told her.

  There was silence between them, broken only by the quick sound of Connie’s breathing.

  ‘And what about my feelings?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘They’re your affair.’

  ‘And supposing I won’t.’

  ‘Won’t what?’

  ‘Won’t go.’

  Mrs Vizzard drew herself up. As she was always a bolt upright ramrod of a woman, this only meant that she raised her chin a little higher. But it was enough. It gave her just that bit of extra confidence that was needed to ensure that the whole situation didn’t get out of hand and become vulgar. A row with a lodger would have been unspeakably degrading.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Connie,’ she said. ‘You’ll go if I tell you to go.’


  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you,’ Connie answered. ‘I’m not.’ There was another silence. But not a complete one. Connie was humming now.

  ‘If you don’t go of your own free will,’ Mrs Vizzard said in a low steady voice, ‘I’ll have you put out.’

  ‘Meaning the police?’

  ‘Meaning the…’

  As she came to the word Mrs Vizzard checked herself. It was something that she didn’t like to hear from her own lips. That single word stood for everything that was sordid and unpleasant in life.

  ‘Meaning exactly that,’ she corrected herself.

  Connie stopped humming.

  ‘They’ll be needed,’ was all she said.

  Somewhere in the back of one of the sideboard drawers was a little book, The Law of Landlord and Tenant. Why hadn’t she re‐read it in preparation for this kind of thing? Mrs Vizzard asked herself. Memo‐rised it even. She had studied it carefully enough when she bought it. It had been her first primer in self‐supporting widowhood, in fact. But ever since then it had lain there, unread – and unneeded. There was one chapter entitled ‘Rights of the Landlord,’ that had been specially written to help with people who are being difficult.

  ‘If assistance has to be sent for,’ she said at last, in the same steady voice, ‘that’s only the end so far as the landlord is concerned. You’ll have been in unlawful possession of premises, and you’ll have to bear the consequences. And if you try to resist arrest…’

  ‘What about squatter’s rights?’ Connie demanded. ‘I’ve seen my solicitor and he says…’

  Then Mrs Vizzard did a bold thing. She took up her hat from the chair where she had laid it, and went over to the mirror.

  ‘I am going to the Police Station now,’ she said.

  Police Station! The horrid word had slipped out despite herself.

  ‘See you when you get back,’ said Connie.

  ‘You’ll see more than me,’ Mrs Vizzard answered.

  ‘It’s the third floor back you can tell ’em,’ Connie advised Mrs Vizzard. ‘The one with the door locked.’

  Mrs Vizzard’s hands shook visibly as she thrust back a strand of hair.

  ‘And while you’re down there, tell ’em to bring an axe with ’em. Because once this door’s been locked, it stays locked.’

  ‘They’ll know what to do, without me telling them,’ Mrs Vizzard replied over her shoulder.

  ‘You bet they will,’ Connie answered. ‘It’s just what flatties love, smashing up other people’s property. It won’t be only the door that gets broken if I have anything to do with it. There’s furniture in the room, too.’

  ‘Do you… do you want to get yourself hand‐cuffed?’ Mrs Vizzard asked her, her voice rising a little as she said it.

  Now she really had been low and outspoken. She had threatened.

  Threatened, but not intimidated, Connie gave a little laugh.

  ‘You’ve got it,’ she said. ‘Hand‐cuffed and carried. If they can hold me. You can tell ’em from me I’m a struggler. I’ll scream, too, if they don’t put a gag on me. Tell ’em that as well from Auntie.’

  Mrs Vizzard picked up her gloves and began slowly thrusting her fingers into them. Her movements were not so rapid now and she appeared to be thinking.

  ‘It’ll be a scene all right when it happens,’ Connie went on. ‘If I were you I should stop out for it. And if any of the others give you notice on account of the noise, you’ve only yourself to thank for it. There’ll be a crowd outside before I’m finished with. When I start screaming people hear me. They’ll remember the day little Connie said good‐bye to No. 10.’

  Mrs Vizzard was motionless. Her left glove – it was black shiny kid – was half on, and she made no movement to draw it on further. Then, abruptly she pulled it off again and turned to face Connie.

  ‘If I let you stop, will you have learnt your lesson?’ she asked.

  ‘By heart,’ Connie answered, contritely.

  ‘And there won’t be any more of these goings on?’

  ‘Not likely,’ said Connie. ‘If you were in my place, would you?’

  ‘Very well,’ Mrs Vizzard told her. ‘This time we’ll agree to overlook it. But you’ve been warned, remember.’

  ‘Then I can stop?’

  Mrs Vizzard bowed her head.

  ‘Bless your dear, kind heart,’ Connie said complacently. ‘You’ve done your good deed all right for to‐day.’ She turned and started for the door. ‘And may you never regret it more than I shall,’ she added.

  ‘And what,’ Mrs Vizzard asked, ‘about that seven‐and‐six?’

  Outside Connie paused and drew a deep breath.

  ‘Saved again in the eleventh hour,’ she told herself.

  Then she remembered the seven‐and‐six, and she shook her head. ‘Dear kind heart nothing. One pound of flesh, please, and I want it by lunch‐time: that’s more her mark.’

  Then she smiled. It wasn’t really so serious even about the seven‐and‐six. After all, Mr Josser had given her the full three weeks. And she supposed that she was really one of the lucky ones. Lucky to have a roof over her head and a bit on the side to see her through this little bit of trouble.

  4

  Mr Josser had got himself another job. Tired of his retirement, he was now a rent collector. And, after four and a half months of doing nothing, it was like emerging from the gloom of the chrysalis into the full sunlight to realise that he was a free man no longer.

  Because he’d only had the job for the last three‐quarters of an hour he was excited as well as pleased. Pleased that he should have got the job at all when London was full of old clerks, all of whom wanted something part‐time, something not too strenuous. And so excited that he wanted to tell someone. Admittedly, there had been wire‐pulling and a word or two on the side to help him. The Under‐Secretary for the Colonies had spoken to the First Sea Lord – in his civil capacity, of course – and that had fixed it. But, influence or not, the simple fact remained that he had been interviewed by strangers and found worthy. That was what had been bothering him. After all those years at Battlebury’s Mr Josser hadn’t really known what the outside world would have to say about employing him.

  He was still bubbling over with his new importance when he got back to Dulcimer Street. A pound a week the job was going to bring in. And, coming on top of the couple of pounds he was drawing as a pension, that made three pounds. It was as much as he had got married on. And there had been the children as well to bring up then. At the thought of the bright future, the roseate prospect of the ensuing years, Mr Josser began whistling. He was still whistling when he got out his door key and went inside.

  Went inside, and stepped right into the middle of a crisis. It was Baby who was the centre of it. In perfect health and high spirits at breakfast, she had been sulky and fretful by lunch and by tea‐time spots had appeared. And Cynthia – silly little giggling Cynthia, who looked too young to be a mother, anyhow – had lost her head at the sight of them. She had rung Ted up at the Co‐op., thereby interrupting its important retail affairs. And Ted, like the sensible fellow he was, had come straight round to his mother as soon as the stores had closed. He was sitting there now, morose and preoccupied.

  The effect on Mrs Josser, however, was magical. She responded to crisis as to a tonic. It braced and stimulated her. There was a passing flattery in the implicit acknowledgment of the fact that even a small child nearly three miles away in Balham couldn’t come out in a rash without her having to be sent for.

  And in her new role of indispensableness Mrs Josser became dictatorial and overbearing. She told Ted point‐blank that if there was serious illness in the house the best thing he could do was to keep out of the way for the time being. This was an affair for Cynthia and herself, she said. Illness, particularly the sudden illness of little children, it seemed, was something far too big for any man, with the exception of the doctor, to get mixed up with.

  So she began by insisting that Ted shoul
d stop on at No. 10 for a meal while she went over to Larkspur Road herself. There was nothing, she explained, more upsetting for a woman when there was illness in the house than to have a man hanging about wanting a meal – or worse still getting it himself. In time of sickness the whole sex in Mrs Josser’s eyes became superfluous. And to prove its uselessness, she started to get a meal ready for her two waifs before leaving. She was away only about five minutes. But she returned, with her hat already on, carrying a loaded tray.

  Having placed it before them, she refused to eat anything herself. She seemed, indeed, shocked at the suggestion, that she, a woman, should even think of eating at a time like this. Instead, she shot straight off, carrying a shopping bag containing a thermometer in a little metal case, three Oxo cubes, a box of night‐lights, a Seidleitz powder and a packet of cotton wool. There was always a tendency on Mrs Josser’s part to dramatise these occasions.

  Ted was the first to speak after Mrs Josser had gone.

  ‘I dunno that Cynthia’ll be very pleased to see Mum if she’s expecting me,’ he said.

  ‘I thought of that,’ Mr Josser answered. Ever since he had got back he had felt like a man who sees an avalanche descending without having been able to warn the people down in the valley below.

  ‘But it wouldn’t have been any use trying to stop her,’ he added. ‘No use at all.’

  After that they ate in silence for some time. Then Ted spoke again.

  ‘Spots aren’t dangerous, are they?’ he asked.

  It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that they might be. But something of Mrs Josser’s reaction had now seeped through to him. He was a great pal of Baby’s and he couldn’t bear to think of anything happening to her while he was just sitting there eating.

  But Mr Josser reassured him.

  ‘You both had ’em,’ he said. ‘And you got over ’em.’

  After that conversation died away again. Even when the cheese course was reached and Mr Josser lifted the floral china lid of the dish, he just shook his head. Under the strain of emotion he had already been unusually eloquent and he was back to normal again now. He was thinking of the affairs of his department. They’d been two shillings and seven pence short in the cash‐desk when he’d come away and he was wondering if they’d find it.