Joe and Africana walked down a long road paved with silver cobbles. All the way along were stalls with singing birds and hens and hokey-pokey ice-cream and fritters and jellied eels and Polish bonbons, and you could take whatever you wanted. At the end of the road there was a huge palace like the Roxy Cinema in Whitechapel Road, shining with coloured lights.
As they walked up to the palace there was suddenly a great thunder of hoofs, and hundreds and hundreds of unicorns came galloping towards them. At the head of them there was an enormous unicorn, his great golden horn studded with diamonds, and beside him a milk-white lady unicorn with a very kind face. Africana shouted out to them, and they ran up to him and licked him all over, because they were his father and mother. On Africana’s father’s back – and this was the best of all – rode Joe’s own father, who lifted Joe up on to his knee.
Then Joe and his father and Africana and his mother and father packed the diamond for Shmule and the Superheat Patent Steam Presser for Mr Kandinsky, and went back through Africa with all the unicorns following them, back, back, all the way back to Fashion Street. That was how Joe brought the unicorns back from Africa where they were lost for all those years.
The afternoon Mr Kandinsky and Shmule went to deliver the rush job it was raining, and Joe and Africana played the game called Africa in the workshop.
Joe was wrestling with a chair which was the cannibal king. He was having a hard time because the cannibal king was becoming a better wrestler all the time because of all the practice. Joe was twisting round into a better position to put the old scissors on him, when he saw a very old torn pair of boots stuffed with rags standing near his head. He looked up. It was one of the wanderers. The wanderer had an old cloth cap with tickets in it, a big red nose, and a dirty beard all over his face. He held a sack in his hand, and a bottle stuck out of a pocket in one of his two overcoats. His little pink misty eyes peered all round the workshop. He asked Joe, ‘Is the old guvner in?’ although he could see that he wasn’t.
Joe knew at once who it was. He watched him carefully, clenching his fists, but when he walked over to Africana he nearly screamed. It was the cannibal king all right. Joe had no rifle and no pistols and couldn’t wrestle and it was real. He stared up from the floor as the cannibal king came closer and closer to Africana.
Then, thank God, Joe heard clattering on the steps and Shmule’s voice say he was wet through. He jumped to his feet and ran out of the room. ‘Quick, quick,’ he shouted, the tears running down his face, ‘quick, quick, quick.’ They rushed into the room while Joe, biting his lip, followed behind.
The wanderer looked up, squinting his misty eyes at them. ‘Ow are ye, guvner?’ he said. ‘Got any old bits of clorth terday?’
Mr Kandinsky sighed.
‘You frightened the boy,’ he said. ‘Shmule, give him some of the bits and pieces. It’s all right, Joe,’ he said; ‘nothing to worry for, Joe.’
Joe didn’t answer. He watched the wanderer fill up his sack. All the time he looked secretly at Africana, with a look like Mrs Abramowitz when she was giving a pinch.
When the wanderer went, Joe saw him stop on the steps. Before turning out into the driving rain he pulled the bottle from his pocket and took a long drink from it. Afterwards, Joe went slowly up the stairs and looked out into the street. The cannibal king was stumbling against the wind, the sack over his back. There was a smell of methylated spirit in the passageway.
5
After the cannibal king tried to steal Africana, Joe was more careful. Before putting Africana’s collar and lead on for the morning walk, he went out into the street to see if it was safe. Even if it was, he no longer led Africana past the shirt factory, because you couldn’t be too careful. He also decided to brush up his wrestling in case it should come to that, so it was good luck that Shmule was just then in a period of intensive training.
Shmule had already beat Louis Dalmatian, who was, to tell the truth, a push-over, and the Stepney Thrasher was off with a broken collarbone. So Shmule’s manager, Blackie Isaacs, who ran the gymnasium, thought it was a lucky opportunity for Shmule to do Turk Robert and Bully Bason on the quick, and have a go at the dreaded Python Macklin, who was anyway not in such wonderful shape, he heard, owing to his stomach ulcer proving troublesome because he couldn’t leave fried food alone, not to mention the booze. It was Shmule’s big chance and Blackie fixed for him to fight Turk Robert and Bully Bason in the same week – Bully on the Monday and the Turk on the Friday.
It wasn’t so bad as it sounds, Blackie said, because Bully was being paid off to be disqualified in the fourth for persistent gouging. ‘Supposing,’ Shmule asked, ‘I only lose one eye, do you take half commission?’
‘Suddenly,’ Blackie said aloud to himself, ‘suddenly our Maccabaeus has got the wind up. I’m telling you,’ he told Shmule, ‘the Bully is being paid off – just keep your eyes closed and scream – it’s too much to ask for a five-pound purse?’
As for the Turk, he only had two tricks, a deathly rabbit punch and a back-breaking full-Nelson. ‘You’re up to that, kid,’ Blackie told Shmule. ‘I know you won’t let us down by letting that deadbeat murder you.’ And he gave him a good rub-down.
Though he wouldn’t talk to Joe about wrestling, except to say it was a mug’s game, Bully and the Turk were on Shmule’s mind all the time. Between stitching he weaved his head from side to side, and as he lifted the iron he would suddenly duck. All Joe had to do was watch.
The weather was cold, so by special arrangement with Mr Kandinsky, Africana was sleeping in the workshop, and as the workshop had a double lock for insurance purposes it was safe. Joe could consequently pay more attention to the wrestling business than he could with Africana living in the yard. Someone might get into the yard by climbing over the backs of the houses, but you couldn’t break in through a double lock for insurance purposes. Also Africana liked it better in the workshop because it was warm and there was nearly always company. He lay under the bench in the nest of off-cuts, looking with bright eyes from one face to another. He needed rest because he had a bit of a cold.
Mr Kandinsky was worried, which didn’t make things easier. He was first of all worried about his rheumatism, which was always worse in a sharp spell. He was also worried about Shmule and all this prize-fighting. He was, into the bargain, worrying about a patent steam presser because with the work short it was getting to be more and more difficult to compete. And now there was the unicorn to worry about as well. ‘He don’t look so good to me, Joe,’ he said. ‘A little animal like that should be full of beans, jumping and skipping, not lying about the whole day with hardly appetite for a lettuce leaf unless you beg him to take it.’ He bent down to Africana. ‘Go on then,’ he said, offering a piece of leaf, ‘get it down; it’ll do you good. Oy – the roimatismus is killing me. And business so bad into the bargain.’
Business was so slow that Shmule said could he spend a couple of afternoons at the gymnasium, especially since he had the two fights coming off and needed all the training he could get; not that he would mind how long he worked if there was the work there, but like this even his finger-muscles would be cramping up waiting for the next pair of trousers; not that he wanted to put the mockers on the business, far from it, but why should he sit here messing about making new patterns when they didn’t have the work? ‘Do me a favour,’ said Mr Kandinsky, ‘go and wrestle.’
‘Can I come with you?’ Joe asked, and Shmule was so pleased to be going off he said Joe could, so long as he didn’t talk too much and take his mind off serious matters.
Then, after telling Joe to be quiet, Shmule didn’t stop talking all the way to Blackie Isaacs’ in Middlesex Street, behind Isaacs’ fish shop, which was his real business.
‘You see,’ Shmule said as they walked round the back streets, ‘I got to think of all the angles. Take the Bully, for instance. He may take the duck in the fourth all very well, but suppose he doesn’t? Also I got to think of my self-respect. If I can beat him fair, it’s better, I don
’t care what Blackie says. So it’s no good you saying don’t worry because the Bully is taking a duck.’
‘I didn’t say don’t worry,’ said Joe.
‘I got to keep after him whether he wants to drop out or not,’ Shmule went on. ‘After all, that’s his business. He can be paid off if he likes; that’s not my affair. If it pays him better, good luck to him, let him lose on purpose.’
‘Why does it pay the Bully better to lose?’ Joe asked.
‘You can’t tell,’ Shmule said. ‘Maybe his manager put money for him on me and they got good odds because the Bully is an old-stager and they thought he would wrap me up with no trouble. On the other hand, supposing he don’t get thrown out for gouging, and I’m taking it easy thinking, what the hell, no need to break my neck, and the Bully gives me a welt, I’m out. No, say what you like, no matter what, I got a fight on me hands. Then there’s the Turk. I see him fight three, four times. True he’s only got the two grips, but never mind, you’ve only got the one neck; he’s only got to break it the once, no more. And he’s got a nice style the Turk, even if he is a bit past it. He must be turned forty.’
‘So old?’ Joe asked.
‘At least,’ Shmule said. ‘At that age you haven’t got the speed; well, you can’t expect it, can you?’
‘No,’ said Joe.
‘But he knows a thing or two all right, all right, one or two tricks to give somebody something to think about and no answer back. I got to keep out of his way and watch out for that little opening, then rush him and give him the lot. Otherwise curtains. Also I’m giving him half a stone, remember, and weight counts in the wrestling. Supposing he gets his knee into me gut, I’m finished, had me lot. Just because he’s got the weight. No good complaining then, is it? It’s all right for Blackie. He don’t have to fight ’em, but if he did he wouldn’t be so pleased. Two in a week. I ask you.’
‘I ask you,’ Joe said, ‘I ask you.’
‘It’s too much, Joe,’ Shmule said, shaking his head as they got to Isaacs’ fish shop.
‘I ask you,’ Joe said.
In the shop they were hosing the fish down, being as it was late in the afternoon and still not sold out. Mrs Isaacs, who had a great mane of red hair like a lion and a hoarse whispering voice, sprayed the hose over the floor.
‘Hello, Ham,’ she said to Shmule, short for Hammer. ‘Hello, sonny,’ she said to Joe. ‘Gonna wrestle him, Ham?’ she said, laughing till she coughed.
‘Hello, Hammer,’ said Miss Isaacs, who was also redheaded, giving Shmule a friendly smile. Sonia made a scene once because she was so friendly, too friendly Sonia said, to anyone in trousers, and Shmule a trousers-maker into the bargain.
‘’Lo, girls,’ Shmule said; ‘behaving?’ He hitched his shoulders.
‘Going to win for me next week, Hammer?’ asked Miss Isaacs, with that smile. That was what Sonia called it, that smile. Miss Isaacs looked up from under her long lashes, and her eyes were a nice green-grey, very nice with deep red hair.
‘For you alone, Reen,’ Shmule said.
‘And is Sonia doing well with her weight-lifting then?’ asked Miss Isaacs, looking down.
‘Such a strong girl,’ Mrs Isaacs whispered.
‘Very nice,’ Shmule said.
‘I do admire her,’ Miss Isaacs said. ‘Sometimes I wish I was a bit more developed myself,’ and she gave Shmule that smile again.
‘This way, Joe,’ Shmule said.
‘That Miss Isaacs has got nice eyes,’ Joe observed.
‘I got no time for such things,’ Shmule said.
In the gymnasium, Blackie and Oliver, the second, were putting Phil Jamaica, the coloured boy, through his paces. Blackie smoked a cigar and watched closely, grunting every time Phil Jamaica hit the bag. Oliver was a punchie and you couldn’t knock him out, though if he hung one on you, you knew it. He was a porter when there was work, at Spitalfields Fruit Market, and could carry eight baskets on his head at once. He helped out as second and would give anyone a fight for five shillings, hit him all you like. Now he was crouching by the bag, his fists following Phil’s. The coloured boy was covered with sweat and his eyes stared fiercely at the bag as if it might hit back if he wasn’t careful. Blackie saw Shmule come in and waved his cigar.
‘All right, Phil,’ he said, ‘turn it in.’ Oliver sat Phil down, puffing and blowing, and whispered into his ear as he rubbed him down.
‘Good boy,’ Blackie said, when Shmule told him he was putting in extra training, ‘good boy.’ Shmule went into the little changing room at the other end of the gym. ‘Put ’em up,’ Blackie said to Joe, squaring off to him, ‘put ’em up and let’s see what you’re made of.’
Joe got into the proper position of defence and Blackie sized him up, still puffing at his cigar. Then Joe suddenly let go and punched Blackie all over his stomach, so that he swallowed some smoke.
‘Turn it in, kid,’ choked Blackie, ‘I wasn’t ready. See the kid?’ he said to Oliver; ‘a champ in the making. Save it for Phil,’ he said to Joe, ‘he’s in training.’
‘What your name, boy?’ Phil Jamaica asked Joe. His eyes were not staring now, and he had his breath back.
‘Joe,’ said Joe.
‘Watch that old defence, boy,’ Phil Jamaica said; ‘you was wide open. You got to watch that old defence or you is cooked. Like this.’ He squared up to the punch-bag again, shadow-boxing it like mad. ‘Easy, easy, Phil,’ said Oliver. ‘Easy, easy, boy; don’t tax yourself, Phil.’ Phil whipped round and shadow-boxed in circles round him. ‘Easy, easy, boy,’ Oliver said.
‘Was you watching the old defence, boy?’ Phil asked Joe.
Joe nodded his head.
‘Now you show me, boy,’ Phil told him.
Joe took up the position of defence again, and jumped into action, weaving round Oliver while Phil Jamaica shouted.
‘Box him, boy; box him there, boy.’
Joe was puffed afterwards.
‘I watched the old defence,’ he said.
‘You’re all right, kid,’ Oliver said. ‘Always lead with the right and follow with the left, one-two, one-two, like that. Don’t forget, one-two, one-two.’
‘One-two, one-two,’ said Joe, punching hard. ‘And keep up the old defence, boy,’ said Phil Jamaica.
‘The old defence,’ said Joe.
Meanwhile Shmule limbered up. He wore crimson briefs with a white hammer in the corner, and as he lifted the weights his muscles stood up in great bands. Blackie Isaacs watched him, rubbing his hands.
‘What a boy!’ he said. ‘What a boy, Olly! What a boy, Phil! Run a couple of rounds with him, Phil. Take Phil for a couple, Hammer,’ he said.
Joe watched them wrestle for a while, but though they threw one another about, and grunted and puffed and shouted, beating the canvas, he couldn’t see how it was done. First they walked round one another with their legs bowed and their arms bent. That was all right. Then suddenly one jumped on to the other, but it was usually the one who jumped first who finished up with his back on the floor grunting, while the other one twisted his leg backwards and forwards.
First one, then the other, the black man and the white man, and first a black grunt, deep and dark, then a white grunt, higher and lighter. And Oliver, the second, and Blackie Isaacs shouting first for Phil and then for Shmule, while the two of them twisted round one another on the floor.
While Joe was examining the gym, which was a big shed where they used to smoke fish in the days when it paid, and which still smelt of fish, Shmule won the bout. Joe didn’t notice him winning, because he was trying to lift himself up on the horizontal bars, but his arms weren’t developed enough. He knew Shmule won because Miss Isaacs was watching from the door, and suddenly there was a groan from Phil Jamaica, and a quick beating on the canvas from his hands with palms which were quite pink, and Miss Isaacs shouted out, ‘Great, Hammer.’
Afterwards they had fish and chips in the frying tonight part of the shop, Blackie heaping their plates with great mount
ains of golden chips and fillets of plaice, all very good because the establishment used only the best frying oil.
While they ate, Blackie talked to Shmule about his two coming fights and what he had heard about how both the Bully and the Turk were finished.
‘Get your scissors well up,’ Blackie told him.
‘And watch the old defence,’ Joe told him. ‘Lead with the right, one-two, one-two.’
As Joe took up the position of defence two chips dropped off his plate, one-two, on to Mrs Isaacs’ clean floor.
6
No one expected Shmule to lose his two fights, but at the same time, to win two fights in the one week is very good and you shouldn’t expect it. Consequently when Bully Bason was disqualified in the fourth round, due to persistent gouging, and Shmule went the whole length with Turk Robert to win on points after a hard fight and fairly clean, everyone was delighted.
People kept dropping into the workshop to congratulate Shmule and ask him how it felt to be a champ in the making, and what he thought his chances were against the dreaded Python, and how their money was on him. It was just as well work was a bit short, otherwise it would have been held up, and that means dissatisfied customers, which is very bad for business. So that if business is bad anyway and held up, at least you aren’t losing goodwill.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Mr Kandinsky, ‘with the best goodwill in the world, a patent presser can still be a help, because in the long run people want good work, but they want it cheap as well; and how can handwork be so cheap?’
Business all over the East End was, as a matter of fact, a bit slow, and Joe’s mother got a couple of days off. Not that it was a holiday. She was piece-working at the milliner’s and consequently didn’t get paid if there was no work. But Madame Rita, her boss, a big fat man with very fine fingers, swore that it was often like that just before the spring started, and the weather was after all extra cold for the time of the year. Without sunshine to wear them in, who wanted hats? All the rain and sleet would ruin a good hat, and in bad weather who anyway would be bothered to notice whether a customer wore a new hat or not?
A Kid for Two Farthings Page 4