London Belongs to Me

by Norman Collins

  So he turned round and walked off quickly in the opposite direction. If those two narks thought they were going to pounce on him as he came round the corner they were in for a big disappointment. He’d like to see their faces.

  Then as he walked on – ‘I mustn’t look back over my shoulder. That’d give them something on me,’ he told himself – he realised how foolish it all was. There weren’t any men waiting for him at the corner. He wasn’t being followed. It was just nerves that made him imagine them. Why should anyone be following him? He was just Percy Boon, one of the ten million. His little Bit of Trouble was a secret between himself and Percy Boon Esq. And if Percy Boon Esq. didn’t feel like talking that was that, wasn’t it? And where did they go to from there? Ha! Ha!

  Then he remembered the drink that he’d been going to have. Perhaps it was what he needed, perhaps it would do him good. Other people had drinks and felt better for them. But what was beer anyway? It hadn’t got any kick in it. What he wanted was something hard. Large gin and a baby tonic, or a double Haig and soda. Something with fireworks.

  Over on the opposite corner stood the Clachan. Percy crossed over and went into it. Almost as soon as he went inside he knew that he’d done the right thing. The saloon‐bar was full of noise, cheerful noise. There was a loudspeaker up on a shelf among the bottles, and a shiny cascade of hot dance music was bubbling out of it. Over in the corner a couple of pin‐tables were pinging and clattering, and all round the bar there was a huddle of drinkers talking about happy things like dog‐racing and a Big Fight, and themselves.

  ‘I done the right thing coming here,’ he repeated to himself. ‘Better’n outside. I done the right thing.’

  But had he? he wondered almost immediately. There was one big difference between him and all the others. He wasn’t really one of them. They were all in groups of twos and threes. And he was alone. He was the only person alone in all that bar.

  ‘I oughter brought someone along with me,’ he told himself. ‘I oughta brought someone along to talk to. No fun in drinking by yourself. Not even whisky. I oughta brought someone along with me.’

  He was so lonely he didn’t even want to drink. Usually whisky was reliable: it made you feel different while it was still going down. But to‐night it didn’t. It just reminded him of things.

  ‘It’s Doris I want,’ he told himself. ‘Little Doris here beside me. My little darling with her arm through mine. I’d do anything for Doris. Only got to ask for it and it’s hers. I’d buy her a Bronx or a Passion Fruit Nectar or a Pimms No. 1. Or soft, if she’d rather. She knows that. She knows I’d give her the moon if she cried for it. I wouldn’t mind what it cost if she asked for it. It’s Doris I want.’

  Then an appalling thing happened. Because he was so lonely and because Doris was over at Hampstead in that flat of hers, he began thinking about the Blonde. For a moment his mind was divided right down the middle. Cut clean into two parts. And one half didn’t know what the other half was up to.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I go along and see her?’ he asked himself. ‘She likes me. She’d be there waiting. Why shouldn’t I go?’

  Then there was a click and the two halves came together again. He realised what he’d done. He’d been planning a date with a dead girl…

  That shook him. Shook him badly. Made him lose confidence, in fact.

  ‘Going balmy, that’s me,’ he told himself. ‘Going balmy.’

  But he was all right now. He could afford to laugh – but not much – at his mistake. And that wasn’t because of the whisky, either. It was because a real good idea, a proper brain‐wave, had just come to him. Why shouldn’t he do what he really wanted? Why shouldn’t he go and see Doris? There wasn’t any law against it, was there? Why shouldn’t he?

  All the same, it needed a bit of face to do it. Because Doris didn’t know how he felt about her. Or did she? Women were supposed to know when men Felt That Way. It was some sixth sense or something. And he’d got to see her. Got to. He’d go mad if he didn’t.

  He glanced at his watch. Eight‐thirty. That was all right. If he went now he’d be up in Hampstead by nine. And in his excitement he could picture it all happening. He’d rung the bell – rather a posh sort of front door bell in a big block of mansion flats – and Doris herself was there to let him in. ‘Why Percy! This is a surprise. Come in…’

  Quickening his pace, he set off.

  It took a long time on the bus. Longer than he had reckoned. And the funny thing was that the excitement suddenly wore off. It just evaporated. At one moment the bus was toiling along past the Black Cat factory11 in the Hampstead Road and there he was in a front seat all sticky and eager thinking: ‘I’ll be seeing you, my little darling. We’ll be together again. You’ll be mine for keeps one day. I’ll be seeing you, my little darling.’ And, at the next, he was wondering why he’d come. Just like that. Perhaps it had been the whisky after all.

  But he wasn’t going back now. Not after he’d come all that way. It wouldn’t make sense. In any case, he liked it over this side of London. There wasn’t anyone who knew him there. It was safer. If it hadn’t been for his old mum he’d have taken a room over at Camden Town and made a fresh start.

  He was still thinking about that when he found that he wasn’t going right. The bus had turned off suddenly and he was actually being taken away from Chalk Farm Station. As soon as the conductor told him what was happening he did one of his flying get‐offs and started to walk back. And it was a long way. Chalk Farm itself was far enough, but the Adelaide Road only started there. There was miles of it. And it wasn’t quite so good‐class as he’d expected. O.K., but not Ritzy.

  And the flat itself wasn’t in the least what he’d imagined it. Even after he’d reached the house, he couldn’t be sure. Twice he got to the bottom of the flight of iron stairs and each time he went back round to the front to see if it really was the right address. Then on the third attempt he plucked up his courage and began to mount in the direction of the little sign that said ‘studio.’ His heart was hammering again by now.

  Because they weren’t expecting him he had to ring twice before anyone answered. Then the light came on and the door was opened to him. It was full in his face, the light, and for a moment he couldn’t be sure who was standing there. Then he saw it was Doreen.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said awkwardly.

  Doreen stared.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’ ’spect you remember me,’ he explained. ‘Met you over at my place when you came to see Doris.’

  ‘Oh, it’s Doris you want, is it?’ Doreen asked.

  Very cool. No invitation in her voice.

  ‘Thasright,’ Percy told her, smiling politely.

  It wasn’t easy. He was having to be pleasant for both of them.

  ‘As a matter of fact, you’re unlucky,’ Doreen said, still in the same off‐hand manner. ‘She’s out.’

  Percy paused. He hadn’t allowed for this one. For the moment Doreen had floored him.

  But only for the moment.

  ‘ ’Specting her back – soon?’ he asked.

  ‘Y‐e‐s,’ Doreen answered, doubtfully. ‘She shouldn’t be long. Would you… would you like to come in and wait?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Percy. ‘Don’ min’ if I do.’

  As he said it, he was aware that she was pouting at him. She was cross about something. But she couldn’t go back on her word. She’d invited him, hadn’t she?

  And then as soon as he got inside he understood everything. She’d got a man there. Percy saw his hat and gloves – canary yellow ones – on the table by the door. He’d broken in on something. And as soon as he saw the way the cushions were on the couch, he knew what.

  The man was Mr Perkiss. He rose as soon as Percy entered and stood there waiting to be introduced. He was a pale, rather seedy looking little man with thin silver grey hair very neatly brushed and a thin summer suit, also very neatly brushed, of the same colour as his hair.

 
‘Oh Monty,’ Doreen said. ‘This is Mr… What is your other name?’

  ‘Boon.’

  ‘Mr Boon. He’s a friend of Doris’.’

  ‘Any friend of Doris’ is a friend of…’ Mr Perkiss began. But he was interrupted.

  ‘Hot en it?’ Percy remarked, fumbling with his cigarette case.

  ‘It’s June, you know,’ Mr Perkiss told him. ‘Flaming June, remember.’

  ‘Smoke?’

  He had offered Doreen a cigarette before he noticed that she was already smoking. She’d got that holder of hers. He turned to Mr Perkiss.

  ‘No, no,’ Mr Perkiss told him hurriedly. ‘You’re our visitor. Have one of these. They’re Turkish.’

  Percy took one and then wished he hadn’t. It would have looked more independent, more man of the world, to have had one of his own. Or would that have been bad manners? He didn’t know.

  ‘Nice little place you got here,’ Percy observed.

  ‘Delightful! Delightful,’ Mr Perkiss answered. ‘Such character.’

  That was where Percy stopped. He didn’t know what Mr Perkiss was talking about. There was a long difficult pause. It was Doreen who broke it.

  ‘You’re something to do with cars, aren’t you?’ she asked, when the silence couldn’t go on any longer. She felt like screaming already.

  ‘Thasright,’ Percy replied again.

  ‘Not… not a racing motorist?’ Mr Perkiss enquired. ‘I have always had such an admiration…’ But again he was interrupted.

  ‘I’m in the garage business,’ Percy told him.

  ‘Garages!’ Mr Perkiss repeated. ‘Then you’re one of those wonderful men who know all about the insides of cars?’

  Wonderful men! Was he getting at him? Percy wondered. Or was that the way he always talked. He couldn’t make it out.

  ‘I know a bit,’ he answered.

  There was another silence. Percy couldn’t think of anything to say. The silence seemed as though it would go on for ever.

  ‘I had my car stolen once,’ Mr Perkiss said at last.

  Percy whistled.

  ‘Lot of it about,’ he remarked. ‘What was it?’

  ‘A Hillman Minx,’ Mr Perkiss told him. ‘A blue one.’

  Percy nodded his head knowingly.

  ‘They’re easy,’ he said.

  As soon as he had said it, he wished he hadn’t. He’d be giving himself away if he wasn’t careful. And the worst happened. Mr Perkiss became very interested at once. Then Doreen sat up and opened her eyes.

  ‘Do you know about stolen cars?’ Mr Perkiss asked. ‘How exciting! I’ve always wondered how they manage about the number plates. I find criminology so fascinating.’

  ‘I don’t know anything. Not personally,’ Percy answered.

  There was silence again. And to his irritation, he realised that he was blushing.

  It was during the silence that Doris came in, with Bill’s arm round her shoulders.

  It was after eleven when he got back to Dulcimer Street. He hadn’t wasted any more of his time up at that flat. As soon as he saw how things were he had walked out on them.

  ‘Second time I’ve been made a sucker of because of Doris,’ he told himself ruefully. ‘So that’s why she wanted to leave home, was it? Second time I’ve been made a sucker of.’

  As he turned in at the gate he met the Jossers’ lodger coming down the front steps. They hadn’t met face to face before. As things were, with Percy out at the garage all day and the lodger on the night‐shift at the power station, it was pure accident that they should have met now.

  ‘’Evening,’ said the lodger.

  ‘’Evening,’ Percy answered.

  And then as he went on up the steps it suddenly occurred to him that he had seen the lodger before somewhere. He turned and looked over his shoulder.

  What he saw was a plump heavily built young man wearing a sports jacket and a pair of flannels.

  Chapter XXIII

  Mr Puddy was on guard. Theoretically on guard, that is, not actually. He wasn’t standing at the foot of the stairs with a drawn cutlass, or anything like that. He was, as a matter of fact, sitting beside a gas‐ring waiting for his kettle to boil. But he was there on the spot in case he was wanted: that was the point. He had just completed his midnight tour of the premises of the company, and he had popped into his little cubby‐hole in the basement to snatch a bite of something before going off on his rounds again. While he was waiting, he was glancing through yesterday’s paper.

  And what he saw had upset him. There was too much happening for his taste. Reading the papers nowadays you might think that journalists were in charge of things instead of simply writing about them. There was a fresh surprise every morning. Missions were going and coming all the time. Pacts were being signed and repudiated. And to show that Mr Chamberlain had really meant what he had said about compulsory military training the first batch of conscripts who had registered at the beginning of June were being called up to‐day. There was a picture of one of them receiving his papers. He didn’t look much older than a schoolboy.

  ‘Caddod fodder,’ Mr Puddy said to himself, shaking his head sadly. ‘So buch caddod fodder.’

  He was glad for his own sake that he was fifty‐six. It wasn’t likely that they’d reach the fifty‐sixes. They wouldn’t want men of his age in the trenches. Besides, they were doing away with trenches this time. If there was going to be a war it would all be fought in the air. The papers said so. And he couldn’t fly. He was safe enough: this was going to be a young man’s war. The papers said that also. But supposing they should try to rope him in, he’d got an answer for them. His feet. It was his feet that had saved him last time. Even an Army doctor could tell that they were impossible. With feet like this marching was out of the question. If any general in the British Army had wanted to start up something in a new sector he’d have had to send a car for Private Puddy.

  But getting killed in the trenches wasn’t the only thing that could happen to a man in wartime. Particularly in World War II. Civilians weren’t going to be any safer than soldiers this time. Take air‐raids: before he was through with it his own little cubby‐hole might have to be turned into a shelter. Or poison‐gas on all the big cities. Or germ‐warfare. Or invasion …

  The kettle boiled up suddenly and put the gas out, and Mr Puddy made his tea. He was still depressed and apprehensive. And as he stirred he thought.

  ‘Blogade,’ he reflected. ‘That’s adother danger. Hundreds of subbarines blogading everything. Dothing cubbing id. Just whad’s left in the shobs.’

  The thought was so awful that he put his cup down and sat staring straight in front of him. This peril – and it was the likeliest of the lot – was the one that haunted him most. From the way things were going, he might before next Christmas be slowly starving to death. He went clammy at the thought.

  And all through the night the terror preyed on him. It came to him in a dozen different forms. He remembered stories of ship‐wrecked sailors, just skin and bone by the time they were rescued: of elderly neglected invalids discovered by welfare officers; of natives in famine areas; of sentences of slow death in the Middle Ages.

  When morning came he was down in his cubby‐hole again. Only this time, he was writing. On the back of a postcard he was jotting down a list. It read:

  6 tins condensed milk.

  8 lbs. sugar.

  3 packets Quaker Oats.

  2 marmalade.

  2 jam.

  2 Bovril.

  6 tins Salmon.

  2 pineapple.

  2 peaches.

  3 lbs. rice.

  1 tongue (Lazenby).

  After the last entry he drew a line and started off in a different category. He wrote:

  2 pr. pyjamas.

  2 prs. thick socks.

  2 wool combs.

  1 pair gloves.

  1 blanket.

  Next to starving, being cold – really cold, the freezing‐to‐death stuff – had alway
s seemed to Mr Puddy one of the most terrible ends that could happen to any man.

  Chapter XXIV

  1

  Mr Josser had been in bed all this time. Ever since his soaking he had been up and down. Better one day and worse the next. And this evening Mrs Josser didn’t like the look of him at all. He had a pain in his side every time he breathed and his temperature was mounting again.

  Taken altogether it had been the most trying three weeks that she could remember, with Mr Josser more peevish than she had ever known him. And then, on top of everything, the regular Panel Doctor had to choose this of all times to go off on holiday, and Mr Josser refused point blank to see his locum tenens. Not that Mrs Josser blamed him. The locum tenens was a woman.

  At about 9.30, when Mr Josser was breathing nineteen to the dozen and groaning with every lungful, Mrs Josser could stand the strain alone no longer. She arranged with Mrs Boon to sit with the invalid while she slipped outside for a moment, and she phoned up Doris. It was the first telephone call from her family that Doris had received.

  ‘But my sweet, you can’t think of going now,’ Doreen said when she told her. ‘Not with all those sandwiches to eat. You simply can’t. And you know how alarming everything always sounds over the phone. It’s probably nothing really.’

  She was speaking at the top of her voice because she was excited. But she was also annoyed. The first time they’d ever had anyone to the flat something like this would happen to Doris. At the present moment there were eight cheerful young men in the room – which in itself was something of a scoop with so much competition about – and when the phone started ringing, she had thought it was going to be the ninth explaining why he wasn’t there already. In fact she’d gone over to the instrument expecting Mr Perkiss and had found Mrs Josser instead.